


a forgotten future

by no_reservations



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1683941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_reservations/pseuds/no_reservations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> </p><p>Harry gets a joke present from his sister in the form of a past-life regression. And because he's an Aquarius,  who's motto could be summed up with: "meh, why not?" he decides to give it a go.</p><p> </p><p> Not knowing it might lead through doors perhaps better left shut.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <i> A simple tale of yearning. And how some things perhaps can travel through time.</i><br/> </p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely haunted by Mogwai's _Music for a forgotten future_ ... and Arcade Fire's _My Body is a Cage_.

 

 

 

 

"I want you to relax."

 

Harry let out a snort, feeling everything but. Here he was stretched out on some sofa underneath a bunch of blankets in some witch-doctor's den. Okay, so maybe it didn't exactly speak of hoodoo lair and more of office space, but still. Warm light was filtering in from windows that couldn't be opened, making him feel a little sleepy underneath his pile, but that was about it so far.

 

"Close your eyes, and relax," the psychotherapist or whatever stood on her card went on; it would always be witch-doctor in his mind. "And release the tension from each part of your body. Starting with your jaw. Focus on the muscles in your jaw, and relax them. Let it go. Relax."

 

So he laid there, internally rolling his eyes at the whole thing. People actually paid for this shit? Seriously? What a bunch of bullshit.

 

But here he was, and this was now, so he should at least give it a try... even if it'd be nothing more than a funny story to tell later. So he focused on his jaw just like the crazy lady told him, and tried to relax it, whatever that meant.

 

And it was weird, but until that moment he'd never been aware of just how much tension he held on to. It was just there, at all times, like the beat of his heart.

 

"Now, let out a breath and let the tension go out with it. Long and slow. Like you're blowing out a candle."

 

He went along with it, feeling a bit silly as he huffed but what the hell.

 

"Good good," the lady went on. "Now I want you to continue to relax. Focus on your cheeks next, and let it go. Each muscle, in your cheeks. Feel them relax and let go."

 

And so he did, bit by bit, listening to her going through each part of his body until he felt oddly detached from it all. Almost like he was floating on the edge of sleep. If nothing else he guessed he might get a good nap out of this whole thing.

 

"Now, I want you to image yourself on a beach, standing there at the edge of the crest. Feel it washing against you, and feel the sand sinking in underneath your toes. And off in the distance you can see a boat rocking to and fro on the waves. To and fro it goes, gently rocking. To and fro. Can you see it?"

 

He nodded, however numbly.

 

"Good. Now I want you to look down that beach, from left to right. Some say that on your left is your past, and to the right is your future. What do you see?"

 

He remained quiet, seeing nothing but fog in either direction. So far this whole thing seemed nothing but a pretty ruse.

 

"Now feel the waves coming closer, slowly coming closer, and pulling the sand from beneath your feet. Gently, gently, they are pulling it all away, until there's nothing left beneath your feet and you're afloat in it. Afloat on a river... on a stream... being gently carried down. Your daily worries and cares pass by on the sides... let them go... they are no longer of importance, because you're floating now, on your way, on your way to somewhere more important. And you let them go, let them slide, because what is important is what is up ahead."

 

Harry let out a sigh as he felt himself being tugged along by it, like he was on a raft floating along a gentle river's bend rocking him to sleep.

 

"Now, I want you to imagine a staircase at the end of the river. Can you do that?" came her voice after a little while.

 

He nodded again slowly, feeling a bit strange, almost as if he'd just taken a few tokes too many.

 

"And as you ascend, what do you see?"

 

He tried to get his mouth to work, but he was a little afraid that speaking right now might break the whole deliciously relaxed thing he had going on.

 

But he tried to picture some sort of staircase just like she'd told him, and without a conscious decision on his part he found himself being drawn up it through some sort of haze. A most glorious light was starting to engulf him, bathing him in its mellow glow in his mind's eye.

 

"Blue... red... violet?" he finally ground out, though his voice sounded far away to his own ears. Some part of him wanted to fight against it, this whole floaty feeling and whatever this was, while another wanted nothing more than to stay in it forever.

 

"Ahh, very good," the soothing voice of his witch-doctor purred. "Little crystal child, go towards it. And tell me, what do you find at the top?"

 

Harry felt himself drawn up and through it, passing through the fog of color onto some sort of balcony.

 

"Doors," he replied in a sleepy drawl.

 

"Oh yes?" the lady's voice came back with perhaps a touch of eager. "And just what kind?"

 

"All kinds," he mumbled, looking at them in his mind's eye. They stood before him in an odd arc.

 

"But which one stands out the most?"

 

"Well, there's one..."

 

"Then go towards it, and grasp the handle. And on the count of ten, open it. And let yourself go through. One, two..."

 

Harry hesitated as he stood before it, his guide's voice urging him on. But the vision seemed to speak to him – worn wood and a tangle of engravings a simple glance couldn't catalog. He wanted to run his hand along it, just to feel it fully. So he moved towards it, holding onto the handle as the countdown went on, and when it got to ten it opened and he passed through.

 

 

Black. And a tumble. Harry felt like he was being whisked like a leaf in the wind, turning this way and that, spinning around like a somersault under water before plummeting again with a swoop. His mind tried to keep up with it, but it all happened too fast. Some part of him knew he was still resting comfortable on a couch somewhere, and that this wasn't real, but it was a most curious sensation.

 

On and on it went, spinning in darkness and without end. Some part of his mind rejoiced in it, free of the restrictions of his body at last. Up or down, upside-down, a twirl, a swoop and a float. Like a superhero embracing the skies.

 

He let out a laugh, not sure if it was just in his mind or out loud.

 

"Good, very good," the lady replied, so perhaps it had been voiced after all. "Now set down. And let this door tell its tale."

 

As if by command he found himself hitting the ground, the impact centering. But he missed that marvelous descend already as he came back to himself.

 

"What do you see?" her voice prompted.

 

And Harry looked around, seeing nothing but black. He felt a moment of disappointment, thinking that perhaps this whole thing was just a construction of his own mind after all and that he had run out of creativity. A nice dream, and nothing more.

 

But just as the thought met him the darkness seemed to lift and the scene changed. And he was whisked away again, as if by a foreign hand.

 

Hands hands and more hands. Touches, caresses, a push and pull, and the slide of limbs. A desperate sense of urgency, of need. He let out a gasp, a little overwhelmed. It felt real, whatever it was. All so deliciously real. Oh fuck.

 

A trace of fingertips down his side, wayward and careless, leaving his nerves tingling in want. His hands clenched in soft sheets as a ripple of desire coursed through him. He wanted nothing more than to curl in on it, to have it engulf him. Like a warm breeze at his back, pushing and pulling, everywhere at once, and no where at all.

 

A sigh escaped him as he felt himself being held, some logical part of him hoping it wasn't audible, while another didn't seem to give much of a fuck at all. Instead it seemed to revel in how it felt, the heat of another body against his back, the feel of skin against his, pressing close.

 

And Harry sort of wanted to cry. For this might be a dream or whatnot, but it felt so amazing. Like he had a connection to this person that he didn't even know. Like they belonged together.

 

"What do you see?" the lady's voice broke through his delicious daytime cuddle.

 

"Err..." he mumbled out, trying not to break the connection. "I'm not alone," he added, diplomatically.

 

"Hmm... and who are you with? What do they look like? What do you look like?"

 

Harry stopped, withdrawing from the imaginary phantom before his eyes to get a better look. Soft hands fleeted down his arms as he did so, eager to pull him close again. And warm blue eyes looked back, along with a disheveled mess of hair.

 

A curious feeling stirred in him, one of urgency, of wanting nothing more than to shove him into that stall – and what the fuck was that? A stable? Was that straw? He swallowed, utterly confused. But nonetheless, the images swarmed his mind with a frantic urgency – rough and quick, before anyone could know. Because it was forbidden. It was wrong. It was secret. But it was theirs.

 

Warm hands running down his side, making quick work of his trouser buttons. A mouth on his neck, alternating between open mouthed kisses and bites while clothing was roughly discarded, almost to the point of being torn off.

 

But he didn't mind. It was frantic and hot, and fuck, amazing. He felt the need clawing in him as if it was his own. He needed him, whoever this person was. The thought that it was a he didn't even cross his mind as his hands reached out to unbutton, it didn't matter. All that was important was this, right now. Even if all he could get was this little stolen moment pressed against the wall of a dirty stall, his lace-up boots probably ankle high in manure. But he didn't care, because it felt so incredibly right. His dick was being roughly palmed to hardness and that mouth seemed to know just where to go to drive him crazy. They'd obviously done this before.

 

He grasped the boy's face in his hands, feeling the roughness of his stubble scratching his palms as he leaned in, needing to feel his lips on his. Their kiss was just as desperate, like a lungful of air after surfacing. His lips tingled with each brush and slide, and his heart was pounding desperately, knowing that it must catalog each moment. For these encounters were few and far between – and each carried a risk most dire. If they were discovered it would mean the end of them, in more ways than one. So he must remember it all – every caress, every touch, every sigh... and lock them safely away in his heart to see him through the endless stretch of empty days and lonely nights.

 

But something was wrong. The boy backed away suddenly, shushing the complaint on his lips with a hand. There was panic in his eyes. Someone was coming...

 

Harry awoke with a jerk to the count of the psychotherapist, gasping for air like he'd been held underwater.

 

"What the fuck was that?" he wheezed struggling up and trying to toss blankets off himself. They seemed to have cocooned around him during the session, threatening to strangle him now along with everything else. His heart was pounding while his throat burned, and his stomach was doing odd swoops as if contemplating nausea. Not to mention the throb of an erection pressing painfully against the metal teeth of his zipper.

 

He kept one of the blankets on his lap at the last second, rubbing at his face in confused embarrassment.

 

"Ah, poor child," the creepy witch-lady said. "It would seem you're an old soul. And there are some things you've still to atone for."

 

Harry stared at her through his fingers. Seriously? He would have scoffed out loud hadn't he been so flooded with emotions right then. Ones that weren't even his own, that he had no cause to feel.

 

Longing... desperate want... the bittersweet edge of knowing something was so right but could never be.

 

He wanted to cry as he sat there, along with suddenly feeling incredibly angry. But neither action made sense, so he just sat there as a twitch of a shiver ran down his neck and along his arms.

 

"What?" he muttered as he rubbed against the goosebumps, feeling the walls swaying a little around him. He could still feel the hands on him, the memory of their caress ghosting over his skin.

 

"Oh yes," the woman said while grasping his hands in hers. They felt bony and terribly dry against his, and his first instinct was to pull away. Tired bloodshot eyes looked back a him as she postulated: "You've got a history kid, if you want to know it or not. I can see it dancing around you like butterflies, desperate to be heard. To be remembered. But the choice is yours. Ignore it and live the life you choose, or spend all your life searching for something that may be impossible to find. At least in this life. But if you do, it'll mean the world."

 

Harry blinked, trying to process her words while slowly starting to panic. Between the things he'd just seen, and err.... felt... and her kooky words, he wanted nothing more than to run from the place.

 

"Uhmm, well thanks... for the session," he said, slowly getting up and eyeing the door. "It was... interesting."

 

The woman just smiled at him while she remained seated. "Best to give it a little time... let it sink in." He nodded, edging towards the door. "And if you need guidance, you know where to find me."

 

He mumbled out a thanks and a goodbye along with a swift exit, suddenly feeling the need to get out of there as quickly as possible. Though as his feet hit the pavement along with a cold wash of spring air against his face, he couldn't shake the feel of it, like a weight on his shoulders. Or a shadow at his back.

 

Shrugging his jacket around him tighter he tried to ignore the feeling, along with everything that had just happened.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

Harry jerked awake that night, unsure of what had so abruptly torn him from sleep. For his room was silent, almost deafeningly so. So quiet that he could make out the low hum of the laptop on his desk in the corner against the window, its sleep-mode light fading in and out like an android dreaming of sleep. And he could hear his heartbeat, rushing through the veins in the ear pressed to his pillow in a quick pulse of static.  
  
  
  
Getting annoyed at the sound, he flipped onto his back to blink at his ceiling, the headlights of a car passing outside momentarily letting him see. But just as quickly the light was gone again, along with the remnant of whatever dream he'd been so immersed in before waking. It had been about something... something important. Something he should remember. But he couldn't, for it had fled as soon as he'd opened his eyes.  
  
  
  
All that he knew now was that it was the middle of the night and he was wide awake... and, _ugh_ , drenched in sweat. He grimaced in the darkness.  
  
  
  
Pulling soggy blankets off himself, he gave a disgusted shiver as his soaked-through shirt quickly cooled in the night's air. He peeled it off as well, tossing it across the room along with his boxers. _Might as well start sleeping nude then_ , he idly thought as he flipped his blankets around and tried to find a dry spot on his bed. _So fucking gross_ , he mumbled into his pillow, trying to find sleep again as his alarm clock cheerfully blinking back a time best left to a good night out.  
  
  
  
But as he laid there curled into covers pressed against the wall like a second person, he couldn't shake the feel of it. Like he was missing something. And that sleep wouldn't come easy.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He jerked awake again, not realizing he'd fallen back asleep after all. It was still dark outside and his clock let him know he'd only been under for a couple of minutes. _What the fuck_? he growled into his pillow.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A few nights later and he was ready to go mad. He was tired, incredibly tired, apparently to the point of being too tired to sleep. And he'd never had a problem sleeping before, but now it was starting to feel like a foreign concept. Like, what, you just laid there, and at some point you lost consciousness? It was starting to sound like a tall-tale, right along with astral projection and stupid past-life regressions and whatnot. Stupid witch-lady, she probably had something to do with this. It was all fine before that whole mess. What had she done to him? Making him dream of that stupid boy with his stupid face in that stupid stall...  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 _And before he knew it, Harry had dropped back to sleep_.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I've missed you, so desperately. My days pass by as if in shadows and my nights are of a darkness that no candle can conquer," somehow passed his lips, though he wasn't sure where the flowery prose had come from.  
  
  
  
"I know," was all the lad answered, before grasping his face and pulling him towards him. There was nothing gentle about the kiss, it spoke of urgency instead; of want, of desire. He felt it coursing through him, consuming him with its need as their mouths connected – skin against subtle skin, the nip of teeth and the quick slide of tongues. And his body seemed to hum with it – needing more, needing it all.  
  
  
  
They were in that stall again, the scent of fresh straw filling his nose and the soft give of it underneath his feet as he pushed him against the wall. Some odd part of him let him know that he'd had this dream before, but he didn't mind. And was it odd to be aware of a dream while you were dreaming? He didn't question it further, along with the fact that he could smell, and taste, and... feel. _Oh_.  
  
  
  
He let out a whimper as the boy flipped them, pressing him against the wall instead to have his merry way along his neck while he pressed close, the heat of his body seeming to reach out to sear along his skin like wildfire, along with the trace of a hand quickly finding its way down to his flushed cock.  
  
  
  
He wanted to die then. In that moment. For it was the most intense thing he had ever experienced in his life, and some part of him knew that after this everything else would be but a poor cast of shadows.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry awoke panting, drenched in sweat once again. But at least this time as he stared at his ceiling he remembered why he had woken up in the first place.  
  
  
  
It had been that dream again, the same one from that session. No more, no less, just the same, replaying on a loop like the last salvageable minutes of a disintegrating film. And the feeling was the same, so intense unlike anything he'd felt before. Leaving him wanting to cry at it or punch a hole into the wall – he wasn't really sure.  
  
  
  
And he wondered if that's what it felt like when you really loved someone. Not just liked, but loved. Like you were burning up from the inside out and the only thing that could keep you from combusting was that other person. Even if they were the one that had lit the fire in the first place.  
  
  
  
He wouldn't know, for sure he'd had crushes before, dated a few girls, messed around and whatnot... it had all been fun, and sometimes even amazing, but it had never felt like that, not even close. Which should be laughable since it wasn't even real, just something his mind had probably made up.  
  
  
  
  
But he couldn't bring himself to laugh as he laid there in the middle of the night in his twin-sized bed. It was quiet again, terribly quiet. He changed his position, rolling against the wall because he needed something solid at his back. And as he laid there, sandwiched between the wall and his blankets, he realized he'd never felt more lonely in his life.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Another night and he awoke chasing after the dream again, wanting it to go on. But it didn't, ending just where it had before. Always the same, the feeling of lust and desperate longing, clawing at him like a caged beast. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at it as his hands tore at his sheets, winding them around his wrists to the point of pain.  
  
  
  
Aroused and frustrated he tossed and turned on his bed, finally giving in and letting his hand sneak down to find his member flushed and hard against his stomach. He felt a bit like a pervert as he stroked himself, his mind replaying his dream for him as his pace quickened. He didn't need lube, holding his skin in place as he stroked and twisted along the hardness underneath. It didn't take long at all before precome started leaking and his breath started coming out in choked hitches as the intensity build. His hand sped up while he bit into the side of his hand, trying to keep the noises from escaping. For his mum was just on the other side of the wall, and those things were paper thin.  
  
  
  
He released more quickly than he'd anticipated, seizing up as his come came to spurt out in jerks and his hips followed, his hand milking it out in firm strokes while the face from his dream looked back at him with a smirk.  
  
  
  
Laying there afterwards, he tried to get his breathing back under control while wiping himself off. He tossed the shameful reminder onto the floor to be dealt with by the light of day as he sighed to himself. _What the fuck_ he muttered, curling back up against the wall as he hugged his blanket with his legs, feeling a momentary sense of contentment before it hit him again.  
  
  
  
The feeling of empty loneliness. The fact that he'd just jerked off to someone that didn't even exist except for in his mind. And the horrible burning feeling of missing something he'd never known.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

"I'm glad you decided to give it another try."

 

Harry bit back a grimace as he sat there on the couch again, the sunlight filtering in just like last time. Truth be told, he had warred with himself for two weeks before finally caving in and making another appointment.

 

For what was he going to say? That he'd been having erotic dreams about some boy that may or may not be from a past life? And that he really needed to find out how the story continued before it drove him mad? Yeah, that would go over well. Not to mention actually having to pay for it this time. These sessions didn't come cheap, that's for sure.

 

But the stupid dream wouldn't let him go – filling his nights and haunting his days. He'd even caught himself checking out boys once or twice, wondering if this was just his subconscious telling him that he might just be a little less than straight. But he'd felt nothing as he'd looked, instead just spending his time trying to find his face in the crowd.

 

Then he'd downloaded some meditation tracks, thinking that if maybe he could get to the same state again he could do it on his own. But besides getting better at the whole relaxation thing it had proven futile. There had been no lights, no doors.

 

So here he was again, counting out his hard-earned cash in the vain hope that he might get some answers.

 

"So how was it after the last time?"

 

"Uhmm, a bit strange..." he mumbled, not sure what to say. But the witch-lady remained quietly looking at him, waiting for him to continue. "I... I've been having these dreams. But always the same one. The one from the session." He bit at his lip as he stared down at his hands.

 

"Hmm, I see. That can happen. It's your mind's way of letting you know that you've stumbled over something important."

 

"But I don't really know what to make of it. Nothing really, well... happens. And it just sort of ends."

 

"Hmm," the lady nodded to herself again. "Well, let's see if there's more to the story, shall we?"

 

And unlike at his first session, Harry found himself more than eager to be swaddled by blankets this time. The relaxation phase also went much more quickly, having seemed to go on for most of the hour last time.

 

Before he knew it he was in that floaty place again, hovering before his arc of doors.

 

"Is there a door that stands out for you?" her voice filtered down to him.

 

Harry glanced around, feeling drawn to one in particular. "Yes, but it's not the same..." he could hear himself slurring while feeling a little disappointed.

 

"That's perfectly alright. These things can't be forced. We must let each life present itself in the order it sees fit. Now walk towards it, and tell me what you see. And then on the count of ten..."

 

He did as he was told. Unlike his last door, this one looked sleek and refined, the engravings along its border simple and stylized. He grasped the handle, this time in the form of intricate brass, and stepped through.

 

 

The tumble again, and this time he let himself fall through it instead of fighting it. The landing also came a bit more quickly.

 

"Where are you?" his guide asked as he straightened up.

 

Harry didn't see much at all, until suddenly it hit him – bright lights against his eyes and the floor of a stage beneath his feet. He was standing on it with one of those old-timey sort of microphones in front of him. And he was singing, some mournful song to a sparse audience. It seemed to be some sort of a bar or lounge, from what he could make out. Velvet chairs and people dressed in clothes like from a retro movie set.

 

And he was singing, calm and at ease though his present self would be freaking out right about now. All those eyes staring back at him between sips of drinks and puffs of smoke. Their exhales filled the air, getting caught in the lights like ghostly shapes as he bared his soul for them. But he didn't care, for this was his to give, and he did so gladly even if no one was listening.

 

And as he stood there, centered and sure while gently swaying to the melody of his making, his eyes roamed the room. Half-blurred shapes met his gaze – not worth remembering – until he caught a face by the bar. He had his face turned with the brim of a hat unlike the others; paying his performance no mind as the barkeep lit his cigarette. He watched over the arc of his microphone as the boy took a slow inhale and let his smoke curl up into the lights like all the rest. He hit his refrain then, the one that always connected with something inside of him. And his voice hitched on the words, just like it always did. He'd closed his eyes at that part, and when he opened them again the lad was looking straight back at him.

 

Harry felt a thrill go through him, for it was him, different but the same. But it was him.

 

Yet at the same time the feelings he was getting from his... err, past-life self or whatever were quite different this time. Instead of the blatant burning desire he'd felt before... now it was... well, he wasn't quiet sure. Indifference? Anger? Hurt? What the fuck?

 

But he, well they, okay whatever, past-life #2 was going on with the song, all the while watching the boy who had turned back to his drink at the bar. And as the melody went on, coursing through him as if from the very depths of his being he was starting to understand. This feeling, however veiled and unfocused was just the same. Desperate burning desire, but in a different form.

 

 

The scene shifted and he found himself in some sort of dressing room, cliche three-panel mirrors and all. There came a knock on the door, and before he had time to spin around he'd entered.

 

"How dare you," his #2 self shouted, the fury catching him by surprise. A few items went flying from his hand after that, shattering quite impressively against the door. But the feeling remained, a very foreign one to him, for he'd always been more of the 'keep the peace at all cost' type. If that came from cowardice or something else, he wasn't sure, he just knew he'd always just really hated these kinds of dramatic confrontations.

 

But as he stood standing there, feeling every nerve in his body as if on fire, he had to admit it brought along another sort of intensity he'd never felt before.

 

"Love," the boy said, apparently unfazed by the missiles that had barely avoided his head as he slowly walked towards him. "You knew it would have to be this way."

 

"How dare you!" he hissed out again, reaching for something else to throw but finding nothing in reach. Hands reached his instead, grasping them forcefully and knocking him against the wall. Something fell as his back connected, and he felt the anger rising in him again. How dare he, how dare he, repeated in his mind as he stood pinned, struggling against the grip on his arms as the brass buttons and rough wool of his uniform pressed against him.

 

A soft kiss on his forehead, in great juxtaposition to the vice grip still on his wrists. Another on his cheek, which felt a bit wet. Was he crying? Another at the corner of his mouth, forever gentle. The lad leaned back a bit to look into his eyes. They were soft and filled with something. Regret?

 

"I'm so sorry," he whispered as he leaned in again, ghosting his lips against his. And he felt his warm skin, the brush of his day-old shave brushing against his cheek, the barest hint after-shave – a scent he would never be able to forget. And he felt something crumbled inside of him, all the walls of anger and fury he had so carefully built up. And all that was left behind them was hurt, and the frightening sense of missing someone who hadn't even left the room.

 

"Please... please..." he murmured as the fight drained out of him. "I don't know how I'll..." A thumb wiped at his cheek as his wrists were released. He let them drop onto the boy's shoulders, knowing he was crying in earnest now.

 

"Shush," he said, placing a finger on his lips. "There's no point. And if this is to be our last night I'd like it to end in a good way. One that will be worth remembering." He traced a hand along his cheek, which must surly look a mess right about now. "Would you like that?"

 

He looked at the floor and nodded, despite the fact that his heart was aching in ways he had never felt before. As if it was ready to break apart for real.

 

Yet as he was lifted up in strong arms and tossed on the couch, he let out a laugh despite himself as he bounced on flush velvet. And then there were soft hands running down his thighs and undoing his garters, and warm fingers between his legs, pulling down his underwear to rub along his clit and push in.

 

And wait, what?

 

 

Harry came back with a gasp again, to the sound of the witch-lady counting down.

 

"So, how was it this time? You went awfully quiet there," she said after he'd managed to collect himself a bit.

 

He straightened up slowly, frazzled and a bit panicked as he blinked at the sight of her office, its bare walls somehow seeming more unreal than everything else he'd just seen. He tore a hand through his hair as his feet hit the ground.

 

"Err, well... uhmm. I might have been a..." cough "a... err... girl this time?" he ground out, his voice catching on the word.

 

"Hmm, yes. That's quite common. The body is a fluid thing after all, while the soul remains. Some have even had reencounters in the bodies of animals. Though those are often a bit vague. Memories tend to translate quite differently from species to species," she let out matter-of-factly, as if this was common knowledge.

 

Harry stared at his crazy guide once again as he sat there. Guess the thought of experiencing life as a dung beetle made his close encounter of the female persuasion pale in comparison. But then again, the feel of hands along parts he didn't have still left him feeling all kinds of out of sorts – the feel of his breasts being cupped, a thumb swiping over a sensitive nipple while a sole finger found a spot he hadn't thought possi...

 

"But was anything else the same?" her voice brought him back to the present. "A person perhaps?"

 

His eyes locked back on her from where they'd fallen to the ground "Err, yes?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"There was a... boy. He didn't look the same, but he was the same, you know?" He blinked back up at her, knowing he must sound just as crazy right about now as she did most of the time.

 

"I see," was all she answered. "Guess this is more serious than I thought. For usually these things are mostly disconnected, vague lessons that you need to learn and whatnot," she waved a hand, the odd gauzy folds of her shirt waving along her arm like a butterfly. "But if there is a person involved, one that has traveled past one life to another... well..."

 

Harry continued to stare at her.

 

"Well?" he finally prompted.

 

She smiled at him, before checking the time on the clock. "Well, I'm sorry to say that our hour is up. I'm sure it's nothing child. A message from the past, that is all. If you want, we can schedule another session?"

 

He rubbed at his face, before mumbling an apology – something about needing to have to check his schedule before he could get back to her.

 

And just like last time, he was out on the street again in a hurry, with the odd sense of something weighing down his shoulders... along with something scurrying behind him as if in his shadow, ready to snap at his heels. So he quickened his pace, feeling more confused than ever before.

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

 

 

Harry awoke to what was quickly becoming familiar – the middle of the night, the deafening silence ringing in his ears along to the pounding of his heart; the sheen of sweat on his body, and, well... he shifted on his bed... his arousal heavy and hard between his legs, to the point of being painful.

 

Going back for a second session had been a terrible idea, he decided as he hid his face in his pillow and tried to ignore the ache. For now besides the dream of getting it on quick and heavy in a stable with a boy, he also knew what it felt like to have him inside him, to have his own muscles clenching around the boy as he slid in and out; first so tenderly as if afraid to hurt him and then slowly quickening as he started to lose control above him – the sounds of his own throaty hitches urging him on. And he could still feel it, the ghost of a cock rubbing against his spot, making it tingle inside of him along nerve endings he couldn't possibly know.

 

His cock gave a twitch and he bit into his pillow to keep the moan from escaping. It had felt amazing, different but so freaking amazing. Some people would probably give anything to feel that, to really know what it was like from both sides, but right now he just sort of felt like crying.

 

His sister had asked that night how the session had gone, if he'd seen anything, and he'd mumbled something along the lines of it having been a waste of time as he jabbed at the controller of his video game. She'd tried to get more out of him but her questions were drowned out by the sounds of gunfire and exploding zombie scum and she'd eventually left the room in a huff. He didn't tell her he'd gone back for a second time. Or just what he had seen. And as he gunned down another stupid brain-eater something onscreen had caught his eyes – the torn recreation of a uniform hanging off a decomposing body, and along the center... the shine of brass buttons.

 

He'd shut it off then, not bothering to press save.

 

 

And now as he laid there in an uncomfortable half-sleep, his mind wouldn't stop its spinning, trying to make some sort of sense out of the whole mess. And there most likely wasn't any, for he knew it was all probably just made up – half-forgotten memories from all those movies muddled together with those in his subconscious twisted into something that seemed real at the hands of his witch-lady's guiding. There's no such thing as past-lifes, he muttered to himself as his grip twisted in his pillow. All just a bunch of bollocks.

 

But then again, why did it feel so real? And how could he explain those emotions he'd felt, some he knew he'd never experienced in real life before. The desperate desire, the want... and... and all those other ones he couldn't even label, just felt them burning inside of him ready to consume him with their intensity.

 

He choked as he gripped his pillow tighter, hearing fabric tear underneath his fingers along worn button-holes. A shiver went down his naked back at the sound and he flipped to the other side, making his bed springs creak.

 

It's too much, he thought. He wasn't equipped to deal with this. His eyes were burning from the effort of withholding tears as his heart seemed to ache from a hurt he had no cause to feel.

 

And all the while, as if oblivious to his inner turmoil, his stupid cock didn't lag... if anything getting even more aroused than before as it lay pressed between his sheets and his stomach.

 

A twitch and an unintentional jerk of his hips, and he was done for. Silencing another groan with his pillow his hand found its way, squeezing tightly around it almost in anger. A few rough pulls, ones that should have hurt more than given pleasure but his body didn't seem to care, almost welcoming it. So he hunched over his bed, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow as he continued, rough strokes as his buttocks tightened, trying to lose himself in the act.

 

But his mind wouldn't let him go, not even now. For as he quickly neared completion, – feeling his balls drawing back for the release – it finally made the connection.

 

It had been the last time.

 

Both times. It had been the last time he'd seen him, in that life.

 

The sound he made when he came that night could have been mistaken for one of ecstasy, an easy mistake to make. But to his own ears it sounded closer to one of pain. A broken sob.

 

 

He was dreaming, which was odd. Should he be aware that he was dreaming while he was? It felt more like a video game, under his control while somehow strange. Was this what a lucid dream felt like?

 

A bike was between his thighs, its heavy motor vibrating against his skin as the landscape zoomed by at the corner of his eyes. The feel of the throttle under his hand as he gave it a turn and a push down of his boot-clad foot to switch gears. The bike responded with a satisfying growl. The feel of the motor underneath him, taking him everywhere he'd longed to go.

 

Faster and faster he went, the road stretching before him, miles and miles of empty pavement just waiting to be seized. It felt glorious, traveling this way, at this speed, getting to feel the power underneath him as he did so. After this travel in a car, even in one of those snazzy sporty ones would pale in comparison.

 

The wind was pushing at him past the grin on his face, tearing through his hair like a frantic lover, and his eyes would have watered at the onslaught weren't there goggles to protect them. But still, faster he went. For something was urging him on. Past his love for the open road and traveling just for the sake of it; something was calling to him. Somewhere he had to be.

 

The scene shifted, and he was off his bike, feeling odd standing on solid ground again. Like a sailor after months at sea, it just didn't feel right. A man stood by the door of a house, though his face along with his surroundings were blurred, not worth remembering.

 

"For what it's worth, I'm glad you came," the man bit out as he passed him. "It wouldn't have been right otherwise."

 

He just nodded, making his way, the sound of his boots heavy on the wooden porch.

 

A blur of entryway, warm light, idyllic suburban comfort. It stuck in his mind because it was at such odds... with what he wasn't sure. Further and further he went, somehow knowing the way. Some part of him wanted to escape from this place just as quickly as he had entered, to go back to that open road, while another was curious, perhaps morbidly so.

 

Another turn, a staircase, a door painted white, and there he was. Or should he say she. He almost wanted to laugh, but his dream-self didn't let him. For there he lay, even if in girl-form this time. It was him. Himhimhim his mind chanted, or maybe that was his heart.

 

She opened her eyes, propped up on cushions as light filtered in through lace curtains. But instead of making the room feel warm and quaint it made it insufferable somehow. Like a dusty tomb. He suddenly had the urge to shatter the glass of all those stupid windows to let some real light in, instead of having to watch it be described by a million floating dust particles.

 

"Hey you," came her voice, thick with sleep and whatever else they had her on.

 

"Hey yourself," he said, though his heart wasn't in it. He sunk to his knees beside her bed as he took her offered hand.

 

"Sorry for making you come all this way, know you have better things to do."

 

He ran his thumb over her hand, not able to meet her gaze just then.

 

"And... and I just wanted to tell you..." she slurred.

 

"Hush, you don't need to." He continued to stroke her hand, feeling it still soft and youthful beneath his thumb.

 

"No, but I do." Her eyes were suddenly on him, looking just the same. Just the same. He flinched a bit, but held the gaze as she went on:

 

"I want you to know that I was a fool and that I'm sorry–" he tried to interject, but she shushed him again, gripping his hand tightly in hers. "I thought that I had all the time in the world, and that going off with you was a foolish waste of time. But now that I lie here I realize that those few weeks with you on the back of that stupid bike of yours are the only ones worth remembering. And if I'd known then how soon this would end, I'd have chosen to spend them all with you."

 

Harry sat there, feeling the soft carpet underneath his knees hurting inside a perfect room, with a perfect husband waiting downstairs on a porch leading to a perfect garden.

 

"And I hope," she went on, though the grip on his hand slowly loosened, "that if we could get another chance, I'd learn to take it all a lot less.."

 

He ran a finger along her cheek, along eyes that had fallen shut. The road called to him again, but its call had never felt more hollow.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

"So, for our next exercise..."

 

Harry zoned out before the teacher even finished his sentence, his mind preoccupied with other things – like that dream he had last night. It had been so vivid, almost like one of those regressions he'd had and, truth be told, he was a little excited about it. Maybe he had finally gotten to the point where he could do it alone, where he didn't need his witch-doctor to guide him. He felt a twinge in his crotch just at the thought of it.

 

But at the same time it had also left behind a bitter taste in his mind, like a rain cloud that had taken to hovering over just his head and following him everywhere he went.

 

For each scenario seemed to be getting ever more dire; faded pages from a tragedy of lovers destined to never be together... torn apart by time.

 

He winced as he tried to shake himself back to the present, to note down at least the important key-words his teacher was writing on the board. Yet all the while it felt like he was oscillating between planes – one tediously unimportant and another fantastically out of place.

 

Like a secret life, one that only he was privy to. One beyond all this, this mundane everyday. It brought a smile to his lips as he sat there amongst his classmates and tried to take notes for something he'd never need.

 

"Now I want you to partner up," the teacher said, jerking him out of another daydream he didn't realize he'd fallen into. He looked down at his notes and found the outline of some sort of experiment. Fancy that.

 

"So...?" the person beside him said, and he nodded as the rest of the room paired up and started gathering materials.

 

His partner did the same as he slowly wandered over to their station and read over the notes he didn't remember writing down. Get a grip, he told himself. Even the stoner kids seemed less out of it than he was feeling at the moment.

 

So they worked side-by-side, his lab partner thankfully more in the present than he seemed to be. But as they chopped and pulverized together he couldn't help but let his eyes fall to her hands, working so close to his. She had a bracelet around her wrist, and it shifted with each chop and jerk, along with the tendons underneath her skin, and he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away. It was nothing really, but somehow... the girl brushed against his arm as she reached for another ingredient, and Harry almost winced.

 

Looking away to frown down at his notes again, he tried to get his mind under control. He wasn't attracted to her, he really wasn't. A glance up to her unfortunate face just reconfirmed it. He grimaced back down at the table. Maybe it was just his hormones going out of control and whatnot. He was a teenager after all, and however much he hated the stereotype, there was probably some truth to it after all. Horny all the time, ready to fuck anything that bothered to give him the time of day...

 

He grimaced again, grinding down the pestle with a little more force than strikingly necessary. The powder was most efficiently pulverized at least.

 

His lap partner collected the residue, going on to complete the crucial steps as his eyes were left to wander around the room. If he really was just horny then any of his classmates would do. Girl, boy, whatever... okay, maybe not whatever. He still had some standards after all... But there was a bright flock of birds to choose from. One even looked back to give him a smile as she caught him staring. Mandy? Melody? Melinde? Something like that, but he couldn't seem to remember.

 

But no, it wasn't that, he thought as he noted down whatever his lap partner was finding. It... or he... or fuck, she... or whatever the fuck from his dreams just wouldn't let him go. Everything else just seemed to pale in comparison, quietly mocking him from the side-lines. It would never be the same, never that intense.

 

He was lost in his thoughts as he gathered up his notes at the end of class, probably more terse than usual. If anyone noticed, well, he didn't. He made his way through the halls, the figures of his classmates passing him by in a blur.

 

Another class, another lesson. He made his way through instructions and pop quizzes and assignments as best he could, all the while quietly longing for his bed. For his dreams.

 

And finally, finally, he was back home again. His mum and sister gave him odd looks when he announced that he was tired and going to bed. It may have been barely past eight, but he didn't care.

 

Shrugging off his clothes and crawling under his covers had never felt so good. He pushed play on his meditation tape and let it count him down, and he hoped that at the end he would see him again. Please please he murmured as he drifted off to sleep.

 

 

A hazy blur of shapes, the feel of hands, a mouth on his neck. Enough to fill him with want, but not enough. Nothing more than disjointed fragments of things he'd already seen.

 

He awoke frustrated and somewhat aroused – nothing out of the usual – but there had been nothing more. The dream the other night must have been a fluke. He breathed into the crook of his arm as he curled in on himself and tried to breathe past the disappointment. He'd hoped for something more, another page to the story. He needed to know.

 

Relax, relax, and let it go, whispered a voice in his mind. So he flipped on his back and let out slow breaths to the count of five. In – one two three four. Hold. Out – one two three four. And repeat. And try to relax.

 

Relax relax relax. The word seemed to mock him as he laid there. The more he tried the worse it got, to the point that the anxiety of not being able to get there became a self-fulfilling prophesy.

 

He blinking his eyes open and glared at his alarm clock. Three in the morning it read, the witching hour. Which meant he had four more until he had to get up for school. Or make that 3 hours and 59 minutes, he grumbled to himself as the face updated. And then he'd have to wait another day, another day of school and classes and assignments and...

 

Throwing back the covers, he clicked on a light as he began searching through his shelves. A few moved books and there it was. It was supposed to be for a special occasion, like when his family was out and a girl was over. But hey, desperate times...

 

Throwing a towel along the bottom of his door and making sure it was locked, he opened the window and flicked on the lighter. It was three in the morning on a Tuesday and there he was, sitting on his window ledge smoking a joint while his legs dangled over the edge. It made some part of himself mortified, while another was filled with glee. And another altogether hoped that at the end, it would be worth it.

 

 

Hands on his shoulders, pushing him roughly against some sort of wall. That mouth on his neck again, just like in his dreams. And the same feeling like from that first time, the one of desperate urgency beneath the threat of discovery. They'd have to be quick about it, before they were caught.

 

And some part of him wanted to cry while at the same time his hands were busy loosening clothes. Did it always have to be like this? Could it never just be... oh he was side-tracked as he was forced against the wall again, his wrists caught in the ends of his shirt. Hands got frustrated, pulling his bound arms up instead, trapping him in a tangle of fabric while another slid down his side. Lips on his neck again, quickly moving up while the heat of a body radiated against his, letting him feel his need against him.

 

"Fuck," the boy sighed out against his skin beneath kisses, making a shiver run down his spine. "This... this..." A rough pull on his arms trapped over his head. "This..." Another flurry of needy kisses and licks up his neck and along his jaw. "This..." A deep breath into the crook of his jaw along with a press of a ready body against his front. Fuck.

 

He wanted nothing more than to melt with him, to feel him along ever part of his skin. His hips jerked forward of their own devices, the sudden contact against his groin making him shudder.

 

"This," the lad groaned out against his ear, before biting down. His hips jerked again. "This... needs... to stop," the boy whispered hoarsely as his legs stepped between his, searching for more friction. "We... this... this can't go on," he said as he placed open mouthed kisses along his jaw and at the corner of his lips and they started to rock against one another. Harry could feel himself being consumed by it, the need, their arousal heavy between them, trapped behind layers of spun fabric and metal zippers. It was digging into his skin but he didn't care.

 

"Ah," he cried out as a hand snuck down, cupping him forcefully. But a mouth silenced him just as quickly. A needy brush against his while a hand grabbed his face, fingers digging in slightly while a tongue demanded entrance.

 

And he crumbled beneath it, parting his lips to feel it flick against his, before it came to stroke and search – each brush against his making him want to follow it, needing more. He let out a groan, his body seemingly ready to sink to the floor at the feeling hadn't there still been a hand pinning his caught arms in place.

 

On and on it went, a fury of soft lips and clever tongue and even more deft hand down below, all leaving him ready to combust in their wake. It was almost too much, this feeling, and he sort of wanted to cry at how good it felt. For it felt so right... like coming home.

 

"Last time..." the lad repeated, and he nodded, because if this was all he could get, he would take it. A hand unbuttoned and reached in and he felt his head knocking against the wall behind him with a sigh.

 

Yes, if this was all he could get, he would take it, gladly. Consequences be damned.

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

Harry awoke that morning feeling somehow strange. Hollow. Like he'd lost something, something important, something that was making him feel off even though he couldn't quite remember it or why.

 

He reached over for his alarm and his hand hovered briefly over the snooze button like it always did, longing for a few more minutes. He hesitated but hit the off button instead, suddenly not feeling like any more sleep. And besides, a few more minutes wouldn't make a difference anyways, just make it harder to get up the second, or third time, he told himself.

 

So he pulled back his covers and let his feet hit the floor, resting his head in the arms folder over his knees for a moment. There was no morning sunlight to greet him to another day, it still being too early for that, and his room felt cold. It made getting up at this time even harder, so unnatural. So empty.

 

Empty. He raised his head to look around his room. Yes, that's what it was. Cold, and dark, and empty. His morning rituals stretched out before him, along with his path to school, his time there, and the path back home. It played out before him as he sat there and he somehow couldn't bring himself to get up to make the first step along it.

 

Half-remembered pieces of the dream from last night floated through his mind instead as he dropped his forehead back on his arms. It had been terribly disconnected, a blur of phantoms and feelings, but he knew that it had been amazing. And hot. Amazingly hot. His little secret... something to carry him through the day. He smirked a bit to himself at the thought.

 

Yet as he sat there he couldn't shake the feel of it. For however wonderful the dream had been, it just seemed to make waking up all the more awful. As if all the intensity of what he felt there drained him dry and left him waking up to a strange hollowness. Like it was all just a faint echo, and now all he was left with was feeling nothing at all.

 

Fuck, he grumbled as he drew a hand through his hair and sat up. It's too early for this shit.

 

So he got up and put one foot in front of the other, and tried not to think. Unfortunately that didn't go to well.

 

 

He missed the bus somehow, even without hitting snooze three times. Which of course made him miss the train. Plus he'd somehow managed to forget his music in his daze, a fate which seemed to stretch the short journey into an arduous trek.

 

Standing on the platform surrounded by the throng of like-minded zombies, he stared at the dirty tracks and felt his mind sink into boredom. The count-down until the next train was updating achingly slow, and as he glanced at it again he could have sworn it had added a few minutes instead. He glared at it for a bit, as if that would make it go faster. Sighing to himself, he shifted his weight and popped his collar to ward off the chill. A breeze picked up then as if to mock him, but it carried along with it a scent of something...

 

And before he knew it he could hear faint laughter in his ears, and the feel of an arm being thrown over his shoulders. The brush of a cheek against his and the murmur of words. He couldn't make them out, but caught their tone. They spoke of something mischievous, something just between them. And he felt the excitement course through him with a rush.

 

Harry let out a gasp and stumbled backwards as something knocked into him. The doors of the train had opened before him and passengers were trying to disembark, a little angry at him for blocking the way. And he hadn't even seen the train approach.

 

Fuck, he cursed to himself again as he jumped through the doors as they started to close, nearly catching his backpack between them.

 

 

"Hi Harry." She gave him a kind smile as she held the door open for him. "Come take a seat. Would you like a cup of tea?"

 

He nodded and she swept off to prepare it, leaving him sitting on the couch to collect his thoughts.

 

This was the third time he found himself in this place, and the second time he'd actually paid for it. He'd warred with himself again as he'd made the appointment, feeling a little guilty for spending his money in such a way. There were other things his cash could be going towards, like that game he'd really wanted or some new shoes or something, instead of this. But those oddly no longer felt that important to him. Instead all he could think about was him.

 

"Here you go love, you look like you need it," she said as she handed him the cup. The liquid steamed as he held it carefully in his hands. He took a small sip, and yeah, he kind of did.

 

"So, how was it after last time?" she asked after a pause.

 

"Uhmm... much the same. But I had a dream..."

 

"Yes?" she prompted gently, and he told her. All of it. Well, okay, he left out the part where the person from his dreams had somehow invaded all of his, err, fantasies and how he may have repeatedly jerked off to them. Or how a mere memory flash would shoot straight to his groin, no matter where he was. It was getting harder and harder – okay, he winced to himself at the bad pun – but it was getting increasingly more difficult to pay attention in school, or anywhere really, when his mind seemed to like nothing more than to zone out every few minutes.

 

So he didn't tell her all of that, but he told her of the other things. Like how it always seemed to be the last time, and tragic ones at that. And how it was starting to haunt him.

 

"Hmm, yes. That is quite common." She paused to take a sip of her own cup. "For it would be a little strange, would it not, if you got shone a scene of a routine day? Putting on your shoes and coat, and going to work?" She let out a little chuckle. "No, with the limited time you have in that perceptive state, it'll always be the most important moments of your past-life first. The ones that could sum up the lesson, in one heavy blow. Not always that pleasant of course..."

 

Harry huffed through his nose.

 

"...but important. Many have recollected their previous deaths and other great wrongs done to them, effects of which they have unknowingly carried to this present life. They can manifest in all sorts of ways – unexplainable phobias, neurosis, emotional issues... and often, knowing where these traumas have their root can help in overcoming them."

 

He sat there a little confused, not really sure how this applied to him. For how was he supposed to overcome him? Try to forget someone he didn't even know?

 

"But your case of course is a little different," she went on as if reading his mind. "The fact that you seem to have the same person popping up in all of them, and always at such a central place in the regression is quite interesting."

 

Great. Now he'd probably become another case study in the book she was apparently writing, most likely with a terrible title along the lines of: 'The many sides of you – lessons through time' or something.

 

"But it's important to not let this become too central of a focus. If this figure is real or not is not for us to say. They might just be a guide, trying to convey a message. And that is what we need to focus on. Just what is this person trying to tell you?"

 

Harry sat in silence, a ready answer nowhere in reach. Just what was he trying to say? It all had been a blur of want and desire, overridden by circumstances out of his control. If there was a point to it all he couldn't tell, besides knowing he needed him... or well, her, somehow.

 

His guide nodded to herself, before clapping her hands as if to clear the air. "Well, let's see if the future may shed some light on all of this. What do you think? Are you ready?"

 

He positioned himself on the couch and nodded, though he wasn't really sure.

 

"And to the count of ten..."

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

 

"What do you see?"

 

"I don't know. There's... nothing," Harry croaked out. He always felt weird trying to talk while under; it just felt wrong, and always perilously close to breaking the tenuous connection if he tried too hard. "I... " he tried again.

 

"It's okay, take your time. Look around first and then tell me."

 

So he did, somewhere far away feeling his actual body floating in that wonderful state while he was somehow beneath it all, a funnel in his mind.

 

Slowly there came impressions: flashes of color breaking through the darkness – a walk home down lively streets on a summer's eve, a key heavy in his hand, a door in need of paint, an empty apartment. And the feeling of exhaustion. Of tedium. Of knowing that the next day would be just like the last while the city rejoiced without him. Day after day, until there'd be no more.

 

"I'm alone," he heard himself say.

 

"Ah. And how do you feel?"

 

Harry would have rolled his eyes if it was possible. Instead he watched himself making dinner for one and settling down at a table meant for two. A clock on the wall struck the time as he scraped at his plate. It looked delicious but he couldn't taste a thing. And of course, that may just be the circumstances of the regression, but at the same time he could feel no joy bleeding out from it either.

 

A shift of time and there came a knock on the door and a cheerful voice called out something.

 

Harry felt a brief moment of anticipation as he turned towards it. She came into the room a flurry of garments and energy, saying something as she dropped an expensive looking purse on the counter and tousled her hair. But he didn't catch what she said as he was too busy staring at her face, looking for him. He wanted it so desperately to be true that he almost fooled himself.

 

But it wasn't enough. It wasn't him.

 

He could feel the disappointment wash over him like a careless hand, smudging the colors until they all turned the same lusterless hue.

 

Another shift and they were sitting in silence as the screen built into the wall spooned out their entertainment. It was playing something, something that he was barely paying attention to for his mind was too tired to care. Yet it was a comforting ritual, something to distract him from the day and pass the time until there came another.

 

But something came to catch his eye though the stupor as the presenter called out the award. The show cut to a pre-recorded interview just then, and something stopped in him as he saw it. For there he was, charming up the camera while he sat nonchalantly with a water bottle in his hands on set, his shirt carelessly unbutton to show just a glimpse of his tattoos.

 

And his regression-self couldn't keep from staring at the screen, feeling an odd sense of confusion tinged with a hint of giddy excitement. For there he was, the one he'd been searching for – his voice echoing through the room and his smile flashing before his eyes as if he was really there within reach, and yet he couldn't be further from grasp. And suddenly an odd sense of melancholy flooded him, if from his future or present self, he wasn't sure. Perhaps both at the same time.

 

For there he was, a celebrity with probably legions of adoring fans throwing themselves at him; jets and mansions, and paparazzi following his every move. And here he was, sitting on a couch a little too late, trying to forget something that would only come again the next day and the day after that...

 

He shut the screen off as the program ended, and the silence that followed made it all seem the more empty. He got up from the couch, just then realizing he was alone. Sometimes he forgot she was even there at all.

 

Settling into bed that night he stared at the ceiling while she snuggled up next to him, but he couldn't seem to take comfort in her warmth, for his mind was preoccupied with other things. Where was he tonight? Probably at some exclusive party the likes of him would never attend. Rubbing elbows with celebrities he only knew from afar. Was he happy? He wouldn't know. And he'd never know. A quiet fury raged in him then, one that spoke of paths not taken, of opportunities not seize, and the desperate longing for something more.

 

"Okay dear, at the count of ten..." he could hear the voice of his guide slowly breaking through.

 

And Harry watched as the scene seemed to disintegrate and fade before his eyes... her, his apartment, his life... until there was nothing left at all. And he didn't really mind at all to see it go.

 

Harry opened his eyes and felt a little nauseous. "Ugh..." he groaned as he tried to sit up.

 

"Take your time. And take a few breaths." She waited while he readjusted to the room. "So what did your future hold?" she asked.

 

Harry frowned to himself as he thought it over. Nothing good, he muttered to himself. "It... uhm... it was a little depressing really," he answered with a shrug. "Like, what you were saying about not seeing the routine stuff, because there are more important things... but this... well, it was pretty routine."

 

There was a silence as he fiddled with his bracelet, remembering what it had felt like. That routine.

 

"Does that mean that there's nothing ahead?" he asked after a little while. "Like, is that really all that is waiting for me?"

 

She clicked her tongue twice before responding, "Oh poor child," she cooed. "The future is only a shadow of the path that is our current life. As is our past but a reflection of what will be. For everything is connected, in one way or another."

 

He blinked at her, feeling the wooziness return with a vengeance at her jumbled words.

 

"So what does this mean? I mean, for my present life or whatever?"

 

"It means..." she paused to take a crystal into her hands and stare down at it as if to center her thoughts. "It... ouch." She dropped the thing on the table and rubbed her hands. "Hate to sound all hooey-gooey child, but there's just too much energy in the room right now for that." She got up to take a few paces while brushing off along her arms.

 

Right... Harry watched as she clapped her hands again before retrieving something from a shelf.

 

"I hope you don't mind, but I'm just going to light this to clear the air," she said as she flicked on a lighter at the tip of a tied together bundle of twigs that stank suspiciously similar to weed.

 

"It's sage," she said as she waved it around. "It helps to purify."

 

Harry only nodded, his arms drawn around his knees as dusk quickly descended outside and cast them slowly into darkness – what with the crazy witch-lady having yet to remember to turn on a lamp.

 

"So Harry," she resumed after her purification or whatever.

 

"Yes?" he tried to keep the tone even and not to think about how he was paying actual money for this.

 

"To tell you true, for I know your funds are limited and this is most likely to be our last session..."

 

Harry remained silent, because it was more than true.

 

"So I will tell you this..."

 

She paused and Harry tried not to jump off the couch to strangle her. He settled for staring at the unfortunate choice of office carpet instead.

 

"You saw him again, didn't you?"

 

He looked at his hands before nodding slowly. Of course he did. He was always there, different but the same, but always there.

 

"I figured as much," she said as she extinguished her sage in the ashtray. "But it's important to remember that glimpses of our future are a mere suggestion really; the most likely outcome that our current path might lead us to. That's why they usually show not more than the outcome of our present life or the one after that. For our possible futures are infinite."

 

Harry snorted to himself at that statement. For of all the possibilities to chose from he'd clearly picked a pretty crappy one. Maybe he should just call a pass on this stupid life and wake up to the next where he'd do it all right. Where he'd be outgoing and charming, become famous, rich, and get the girl... or boy.

 

But instead he was stuck in this one, where his circle of friends was more often flaky than not and his main worry was getting into any college at all for a purpose he still hadn't worked out. Yet all that seemed to matter to him at the moment was someone who probably didn't even exist.

 

"So make the changes that you'd like to see... now," she went on, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Here. In this life. And perhaps it might seem like it comes to nothing at all, but it all has an effect. It all builds up to something more. Energy is never lost after all, it just becomes something else."

 

Harry nodded, though he still wasn't sure if what she was saying made any sense at all. Or if she was even in a position to be allowed to help anyone else really. Her bland choice of office space was suddenly starting to make a whole lot more sense though, for a candle-filled cave of sage and crystals would have probably sent him running much sooner.

 

"Well, thanks," he said as he stood up. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

 

"Don't worry love. I know it's all a bit heavy, too many trees to see the forest and whatnot." She waved a hand. "But you're well on your way, further than most. Just don't ignore listening to what your heart already knows. Hey that kind of rhymed," she let out with a laugh as she showed him to the door for the last time.

 

Harry had to chuckle as well, even though it really didn't. In some weird way he was going to miss his crazy witch-doctor, but he really didn't have the money to keep on seeing her.

 

So he gave her a hug, her body feeling like a fragile bird's against his, and made his way.

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

 

His hand was sliding down his cock slick with soap as the shower head pelted his back with a warm spray. Up and down; feeling himself slowly harden underneath his hand. He'd taken to showering at night, because mornings were always too short and he hated having to track the time. Up and down with a slight twist and he soaped up again when the spray washed it away.

 

Leaning against the cold tiles of the shower wall, his pace quickened as he started to feel it. The slow build. Closing his eyes, he let his mind flow where it may, though of course its path was predictable. Him. Always him. A flash of eyes, the feel of hands, the ring of laughter in his ears...

 

He bit back a moan at the last second, usually better about this whole quiet wanking thing. But ever since this whole mess started... fuck, his breaths were coming out a little harshly as he continued to stroke himself, his member now full and heavy in his soapy hand.

 

Water continued to cascade down his skin as he leaned his head into the arm resting against the wall. Up and down. Up and down. His whole body seemed to tingle with it, as if all that mattered was this. The scent of soap in his nose, the feel of slick wall against his braced forearm, and his face before his eyes. Or faces. For, fuck...

 

Harry bit into his arm as he neared the tipping point, his mind draining of thought as pure sensation took over. His balls seized up and with a spurt he came, his hand milking himself out to completion as his breaths came in short gasps against the crook of his braced elbow.

 

On and on it went, his muscles twitching while every nerve in his body seemed to be on fire. Or ice. It washed through him like a wave and he had to bite into his arm again to keep the noise from escaping. Ohgod, ohgod.

 

The telltale burn was in his eyes as he stood there, trembling a bit as his hand dropped from his spent cock to rest against the wall with the other, while the warm spray of water continued to pour over his back.

 

 

Harry laid awake that night, feeling hot even underneath just a sheet of covering. Sleep didn't come easy, taunting him as he twisted and turned. The minutes ticked by, with each squint at his alarm clock just a countdown on the hours he was losing. No solid eight hours for him, at least not this night. More like five. He blinked open his eyes again to glare at it. No, make that three.

 

Huffing out in frustration, he turned away from the damned thing and curled back into his covers. Fuck it, he grumbled to himself as he clawed into his sheets. If that was the way it was going to be then he'll just have to ride it out. Just another all-nighter, even if he had no part in causing it. That's what coffee was invented for after all.

 

Another twist and turn, and his mind didn't seem to want to shut up even though he was so fucking tired. Please please, just let me sleep, he sighed as it went on, tired of mulling over details and memories and... him.

 

What did it all mean? What was he trying to tell him? He groaned again as he shoved his face into his pillow. For fuck if he knew. That he was lonely? That he was incomplete? That he was wasting this pathetic version of a life?

 

Fuck. He breathed into his pillow, the weight of it all suddenly becoming too much to bear. I've known you in every life I've lived, his own voice echoed from far away. So why the fuck are you not here now? What was he doing wrong this time? Why... fuck...

 

His hands fisted his sheets and he wanted to tear at them again just to hear the fabric rip beneath his impotent rage. He felt tired and impossibly angry and the thought of having to get up in a few hours' time again just made it worse.

 

"Where are you," he whispered into the scrunched cotton of his pillow. "And why do I fucking need you." He curled up into his sheets but found no comfort in the scratch against his skin... and perhaps... and perhaps... the fabric against his eyes was a bit damp that night.

 

 

The sounds of fireworks. At least that's what he thought at first, before the ground shook and they took cover. A burst again and a wall of flame to his right. Screams and shrapnel, and he covered his eyes as it flew.

 

"Take cover!" a voice shouted out, though it was a redundant order. For there wasn't anything else left to do.

 

"Relocate! 500 meters left," came the next order. And they tried, stumbling over narrow planks sinking into mud and more mud on the way. His heart was racing; feeling utterly unequipped to deal with this but he didn't have a choice. Do or die.

 

Another safe-hold and he braced his gun, his hands fumbling as he went to reload. Panic and desperation – his hands trembled from the cold as his heart continued to pound in a desperate fury.

 

But it was cold... so fucking cold. And he was hungry and scared and far from home. He peeked up to look at the wasteland before him – the one they were so desperately trying to claim – and he saw nothing but snow. A million lives lost over a patch of bloody snow.

 

"Advance!" the order came, and he knew somehow that this would be it. A fool's errand across a barren field, for they were surely waiting to snipe them off from all sides. But what was there for him to do?

 

He breathed against the gun braced against him in the trench as bombs exploded in the distance, and he thought of his mum and sisters. He hoped that they were safe and that they'd get through this. That there would be a world for them after all of this. That they'd get to live full happy lives devoid of fear. And that they wouldn't miss him too much, for he was the baby of the family after all, barely 16, not an age to leave home. But the front needed every man it could get. And in some way, he hoped that whatever he was doing now would somehow make that all possible. For it was the only gift he'd ever have left to give them.

 

The ground shook again and screams tore through the air to his left. Another trench hit. Harry clung onto his gun as his eyes squeezed shut.

 

"Hey hey," came a voice as a finger brushed something off his cheek... dirt most surely, for he was covered in it. "You might need to release your safety, love."

 

He looked down at his gun and flicked off the switch with a trembling hand. Yeah, that might help.

 

"Thanks," he tried to reply before another bomb cut him off. He winced and hugged his rifle closer like a perverted teddy-bear. Cold metal against a fragile heart.

 

"No worries, I'll keep you safe," he said and Harry finally looked up, finding kind eyes beneath a mop of dirty disheveled hair. A smile clung to the boy's lips even as he reloaded his gun in the midst of it all and braced for the next impact against his side – one that might very well be their last.

 

Sitting there, he could feel the boy's shoulder lift with each breath against his, and he unconsciously shifted a little closer. It was a small thing, two boys silently sitting side-by-side in a shallow grave of mud, clutching weapons too big for their hands. United in common terror. Waiting.

 

"Charge!" came the fatal order, from where he was not certain and never would be. But it came, and they obeyed.

 

And his last memory was that of him winking down at him as he went to climb up over the trench.

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

 

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow," his teacher's voice rang out as they sat – some in stupor, some in disinterest. They were doing Macbeth, another classic to check off the list of worthy essentials they somehow needed to be exposed to.

 

The girl sitting next to him was busy sending texts to her friend the entire time, the buzz a few tables away nearly catching them both in the process. He watched as her friend withdrew her phone underneath the table to check it again, before sending a smile her way and quickly glanced at him.

 

"And all our yesterdays have lighted fools..."

 

He felt impossibly old as he sat there and listened, the words of a long-dead poet striking a chord. Forever and ever... and yet it meant nothing. For he'd done it all before in some way or another, and yet here he was again. At the beginning, making all the same mistakes. Over and over again, forever without end.

 

Something in him yearned to escape it all, to just get through all of this tedium as quickly as possible and arrive someplace else... if only he knew where that might be.

 

And another part of him wondered what it might be like if he was here now. His guide. His shadow. His friend. His, err... something more.

 

He needed a name really, but he'd never caught one in all of his regressions and assigning one on a whim seemed wrong somehow, just like deciding on his gender. It had somehow become him in his mind though, maybe because that's what he'd been that very first time.

 

"So for your homework for tomorrow," his teacher's voice snapped him back out of his thoughts, and he wondered where the hour had gone.

 

Gathering up his papers and stuffing them into his backpack as the rest of the class quickly filtered out, he couldn't help but imagine him next to him. Teasing him about his space-out. Telling him about some stupid little thing, who knew, maybe a party some girl had invited them to, and how they might go together just for a laugh.

 

And it felt nice, the thought – to have him there. To not have to go it alone. But then he wince to himself as he finished stuffing his papers into his bag in whatever angle they may. For he was way too old to be having an imaginary friend. Seriously.

 

So he wandered the halls, trying to ignore the thought but again and again it came – the shadow of him at his side. And in some sad way it felt oddly comforting.

 

Where are you? the thought echoed in his mind again as he sat at lunch that day while the voices of his peers reached a painful level. He sat wedged between them as they traded jeers and juicy gossip around him, though he might as well have been sitting by himself for all the good it was doing him.

 

He couldn't seem to focus on anything that was being said, and he quickly gave up and surrendered to the abysmal pile of grub that was sitting before him. Repeated pokes weren't making it any more appetizing and he eventually threw down his plastic fork in defeat to reach for his drink instead. Sugar and caffeine – what more could he need.

 

Him, a little voice seemed to whisper.

 

"So?" a poke in his side and he nearly miss-swallowed, so wrapped up had he been in his little bubble.

 

"What?" he coughed while swiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

"You coming?"

 

"Wha?"

 

"Earth to Harry," the boy next to him waved his hand before his face while the rest snickered. It stung a bit, watching their faces light up at his expense. "The party tonight at D's. Her friend asked Lea especially to ask you."

 

Wait, what? Harry couldn't keep the look off his face apparently, as the table erupted into laughter again.

 

 

So he stood outside the place, hearing the music pound through the walls and watching the silhouettes of its guests through the windows. It wasn't far from his home so he'd walked there, which was a plus. But yet as he paused on that front lawn he felt no desire to actually enter.

 

It was every teenager's dream – a house party without parents, illegal booze, and girls, drunk girls everywhere. Girls that had especially invited him, waiting for him to make his entrance. Or that was what he had been led to believe.

 

And yet he stood there, towing the line of the manicured lawn. It was a Friday night, all the more reason to live it up. Yet then, why did he long for nothing more than his bed? His dreams? Why did this feel like a chore, something he had to force himself to do just because?

 

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, echoed with each step he took towards that front door. This was an experience, one he needed to have. Something to check off the list.

 

 

"Harry! You came!" the girl from his English class slurred out as he entered. Amber? Ashley? Annie? He wasn't sure, something with an A. "Here, have a drink!" she said as she pressed a plastic cup into his hands, such a cliche. "You can mix yourself up something better in the kitchen, but first let me show you around."

 

And she did, introducing him to all her friends as he clutched her half-finished beverage, taking small sips beside himself. It was some sort of rum cocktail, the fruity ingredients doing their very best to hide the heavy lace of alcohol.

 

They entered the kitchen, and she mixed him another from the mess on the table while chatting on about things he had a hard time following – stories about people he barely knew, social intrigues and complications, intricate relationship problems of their peers he couldn't even begin to piece together.

 

He took a deep swallow of his cup as he stood there leaning against the counter, wondering again why he'd even bothered to come. He felt so awkwardly out of place. She was meanwhile doing all the talking while playing with her hair and biting the rim of her cup after each sip, and saving him from actually having to respond to all of her chatter. Which was good really, because he wouldn't have known what to say.

 

"Is there a bathroom?" he finally interrupted her ongoing teenage saga and forced a smile as he set down his empty drink.

 

"Oh, of course!" she broke off mid-rant, waving towards his left. "Up the stairs and on the right. I'm going to head back to the living room, catch you there. Don't be long." She smiled and winked at him, flipping her hair as she sauntered off a bit unsteadily. Harry poured himself another drink before he went to do the same, though hopefully with less of a sway.

 

His right turned out to hold nothing but a linen closet, so she must have meant her other right. The hallway was a bit crowded, littered with cups and drunken kids, talking at the usual inebriated decibel. They were sagging against the walls with red cups in hand as they did their best to block his way.

 

Harry suddenly felt stone-cold sober as he tried to maneuver past them, even as he was quickly finishing his second (or third?) drink. A few others were seated, or err... slumped on the floor as they passed a joint between them – the scent heavy in the air. One of them grabbed at his ankle as he passed, and he almost tripped before freeing himself to the sound of their inane giggles.

 

Finally making his way to what must be the bathroom, he found it locked. He knocked once but got no response besides a thump against the door and a moan. Somehow he could guess just what was going on in there, and that it might be a while.

 

Sighing to himself, he took another sip of his drink as he leaned against the opposite wall. The minutes ticked by and he thought about knocking again, before remembering he didn't even really have to go at all. It had been more of an excuse to get away from that girl. A girl that was obviously interested in him... and all he could think of was to run away. What the fuck was wrong with him?

 

So he let himself slide down the wall and sink down on the dirty floor, the stoner kids next to him sending him slow smiles when he met their level.

 

"Toke?" the guy next to him asked, and he nodded in thanks as he took the joint. The inhale burnt, and he tried his best not to cough as he attempted to hold it in. He quickly handed it back before he exhaled – one hit was more than enough for him.

 

Chasing the taste away with his rum concoction, he leaned his head back against the wall. Why was he here? he asked himself again. Oh yeah, because he was young, and he was supposed to enjoy these kinds of things. Right.

 

And he should be grateful really, because the last wall he remembered leaning up against had been another all together. A flash of mud and cold and something else pressed into his hand abruptly flicked into his mind like a razor's edge and he winced. Be grateful.

 

His heart seemed to give off a pulsing burn just then, and he adjusted his position on the dirty floor while quickly downing the rest of his fruity cup of poison.

 

"Hmmm?" the boy next to him asked as he held the joint up to him again. He took it with a nod and the lad gave him a nod in turn.

 

"Always the same, isn't it?"

 

"What?" he replied as he passed it back.

 

"These kinds of things," he waved the joint at the corridor.

 

"Hmm," Harry responded, the weed not really making him anymore talkative.

 

"Sometimes it feels like a big déjà vu, you know? Like I've done this all before, a thousand times but in a thousand different ways. Always the same."

 

Harry's eyes snapped to his face at that, looking at him properly for the first time. The boy was probably stoned out of his mind, but somehow...

 

Something flickered in him as he stared at him. It couldn't be, could it? Could it? His eyes were closed, which made it hard to tell.

 

He tried to take another sip from his empty cup, while all his insides seemed to be on high alert. What if...

 

The boy let out a laugh, the sound alone sending a thrill through him and he nearly choked. Could it? Could it?

 

"Ah, fuck," he laughed again, before rubbing a hand over his face. "You know it's going to be a while right? My friend is in there... and yeah..." he grinned at him passed the hand still covering half his face and met his eyes.

 

And Harry felt it like a blow to the stomach, but not the good kind. He was pretty, for sure, almost uncommonly so even when obviously high as a kite. But it wasn't...

 

"No worries," he found himself saying as he shakily got to his feet. "I'm sure there's some shrubbery on the way," he mumbled while nearly tripping over the boy's legs in his haste. His laughter followed him down the hall – one he couldn't seem to get out of fast enough.

 

The rest was a blur of throbbing music and bodies and perhaps a shout of 'Harry!' which he ignored, too desperate to get out of there. Cold air hit his lungs as his feet hit pavement.

 

What the fuck, he hissed at himself. He really needed to get a grip. He couldn't just keep going around checking at every turn, looking for him. For that way lay madness... and probably heavy medication.

 

He swallowed with a click as he drew his coat around him; the silence of the street all the more deafening after the throb of noise from within. It seemed to buzz in his ears even as he quickly turned to make his way, glad that the road home was a short one. And glad that he'd made it out.

 

But the static in his ears remained even as the sounds of the party faded behind him with each step.

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

 

Harry stood waiting for the train. Another morning, another day. At least he'd remembered his music this time, though it wasn't doing much to lift his mood. The emo tendency of his current playlist really wasn't helping, but he made no move to change it, somehow reveling in the singer's mournful tone beside himself. A guilty pleasure.

 

So he stood silently waiting while a nameless voice expressed all the things he couldn't even begin to name. But he could feel them somehow: Loss perhaps. Maybe yearning. A desperate want for anything at all... anything. For a change. For something to change.

 

It built like a quiet fury inside of him, destructive and vicious. The kind that probably drove others to ridiculous ends – like a slash of the wrist, a poorly thought-out tattoo, or giving in and trying something illegal. Anything, anything at all to appease it. To make it burn less.

 

And he'd always laughed at those sorts of stories, silently belittling those people for their childish antics. Yet standing there now he suddenly understood. The need to lash out at himself. The need to change something, however trivial. The need for... control.

 

His eyes landed on the train tracks then and a thrill shot through him, tingling all the way to the soles of his feet. And his eyes widened as the thought hit him, as if out of nowhere. Devoid of want or despair, just simply there.

 

Jump.

 

He took a startled breath as he backed away a few steps, even though he was nowhere close to the edge.

 

What the fuck?

 

He stood there in a daze, quietly furious at himself. This wasn't him. He wasn't fucking suicidal. He'd never thought about... never! But there it was.

 

His eyes landed on the tracks again and he winced to himself, feeling an odd sort of rush just at the thought. What if you did, what if you did.

 

He could feel the tingle shoot through him again, and he rubbed a hand over his face. Blinking at the display, it read four minutes. Please, please come.

 

The minutes ticked down like an hourglass filled with rice, and he gripped at the dirty banister behind him. This had never been an issue before, but now that the thought had been cast it seemed to have grown hooks.

 

Don't fucking think about it, he grumbled to himself as he pulled out his phone and changed the song. The next wasn't much better, so he changed it again, and again, until he finally found something different.

 

The thought was gone. He quietly sighed to himself in relief as he looked up and his eyes landed on train tracks again. And just like that it was back again. Fucking hell.

 

Stop, just fucking stop.

 

Cold sweat prickled his neck as he checked the clock again. Two minutes. Come come come, fuck.

 

And it was an odd thing really, standing there amongst the throng waiting for the same little train. He glanced at the people around him – a bleary looking lady checking her phone while her hair remained a bit of a mess from a quick wake-up; a tired looking man clutching take-away coffee while steeling himself for another day at work; a child complaining as it was being led along to its daytime prison; all the same really – bored and waiting – while all the while a quiet drama raged inside his mind.

 

He eyed the tracks again, forcing himself to look at them and remind himself that this wasn't him. That he had no desire to end his life, especially not now, and especially not in such a way. But a quiet voice taunted him all the while. Could he really trust himself? What if he just snapped at some point, and his body went through with something he didn't want? A few steps was all it took after all. Just a few steps.

 

Eternity past as Harry berated himself, so fucking pissed at his line of thoughts. He wanted nothing more than to get out of his head at the moment, but what if that was all it was waiting for? A moment alone at the edge waiting for a train a bit drunk...

 

The doors opened before him and he sighed out in relief, his heart racing at an abnormal pace. Shut the fuck up, he yelled at himself at his mind continued to whirl. He tried to cast the thoughts away, but it only seemed to make them worse, as if they'd latched onto something and the more he tried to get rid of them the worse they got – festering like a putrefied wound.

 

 

"So for your homework for tonight..." the teacher concluded and Harry almost wanted to sob in thanks.

 

For this was safe. This was known. All he had to do was answer the questions and turn them in, and all would be right in this world. Check check check, off his list. Simple. Done.

 

 

He jumped through closing doors on his way home, hearing them snap together behind his back. Usually he'd never been one to run for trains – knowing they came in four minute intervals after all – and nothing was more pitiful than dashing up only to have the doors shut in your face. But somehow... now...

 

The train swayed and jerked, but he knew better than to be jostled by it. He stood firm against plexiglass as he watched the train curve around a bend, its inhabitants stretching out in its never-ending expanse. On and on they went, sitting or standing, young or old. But it didn't seem to matter, for they all somehow shared the same frequency. One of drain, of terrible tiredness. Of repetition, of stalemate. And of something else, something much worse – quiet defeat.

 

Harry cast his eyes to the floor as he felt it. The train continued to jerk and jostle them, but it may as well have been transporting a cargo of wood chips.

 

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

 

He closed his eyes as he stood in the divider between trains, each bend and turn a gentle nudge at his back, making him feel like he was flying with its gentle sway.

 

Where are you?

 

His eyes snapped back open at the thought, bringing him back. Where are you.

 

Staring through windows that showed only black besides the occasional station as the train continued on, his mind wandered. He'd always been there, in some form or another. So what was so different this time? Was it him? Was he not worthy or something this time?

 

He let out a laugh, at the last moment realizing it had not been inside his head. He must look like a fool standing there laughing to himself in public, but at very least he had headphones in his ears. And after casting a quick look around at the other passengers he realized he didn't really care.

 

Maybe he needed to become famous? And then he could find him, wherever he was. Harry picked at a loose seam on his shirt, which only made it fray worse.

 

Yeah, cheers to that, not like you're actually good at anything, his mind answered with a laugh.

 

Harry let out a quiet groan as he let his head fall back. Fuck you mind, you're supposed to be on my side.

 

Just stating the obvious, it replied.

 

He glared before him at the snark, before realizing he was actually arguing with himself. Oh for fuck's sake!

 

The train stopped and he only realized at the last moment that it was his own. Pushing past the people trying to get on, he'd never been more glad to be done with a day and to leave it all behind him as he made his way home.

 

Though as he walked down asphalted sidewalks he remembered one sad little fact – you can never leave yourself behind.

 

 

The dream that night was more intense than they'd all been in a long time. Usually they were just a wash of vague somethings – impressions, feelings. Sometimes he would remember fragmented details of, but more often than not it was more of a general impression really. But this time – perhaps because he'd been so on edge the whole day – this time it felt real somehow. Startlingly vivid.

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

 

 

"When I was very young, I used to think that the stars were just holes poked into the floor of heaven," she said.

 

Harry let out a laugh, which somehow sounded oddly high and breathy. They were lying on a blanket underneath them all, her body close to his.

 

"Yeah," he let out slowly. "It's a nice thought isn't it?"

 

"Yeah," she replied, her fingers idly tracing up his arm as the summer's air brushed over them both.

 

And he let them wander, unwilling to break the moment even though he knew it was wrong somehow.

 

They continued up his arm and along inside of it – a ghost of a fleeting brush that sent goosebumps down his skin. Circling and trailing, up and down – just the barest of glances. He could lie there and feel it against his skin for all eternity. Nothing so simple had ever felt so perfect.

 

"And sometimes, after I knew what they really were of course," she continued, "I'd look at them and wonder... you know how they say... it takes so very long for light to reach us... and that very often what we're seeing now is nothing but an after-shadow."

 

She gripped his hand to pull it towards the sky and he let her.

 

"There, for instance," she pointed his hand for him. "For all we know that pretty star a billion upon a billion of light years away is already dead. And yet we still see it, flickering and glimmering. Pretty, isn't it?"

 

Harry looked at it, though a little more focused on how soft the hand currently around his wrist was than whatever star that was dying up there in the sky.

 

"And here we lie and watch its final glory, spectators to something we can't even begin to appreciate. And I wonder, will someone out there do the same? Watching disinterestedly as our little sun finally implodes or supernovas or whatever, while they sit on their version of a blanket somewhere and think, 'Oh, what a pretty little star?'

 

He didn't really know how to respond to that, so he let his hand trace up her arm like she'd done his. Crickets were chirping along with a few odd frogs in the pond down the way as a soft wind blew through the grass. Summer had never had a better soundtrack as this.

 

"And it's sort of funny, really, if you really truly think on it. All those little things we carry with us every day like little rainclouds hovering over our heads – all those worries and troubles. It all seems so important at the time, but in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? We're just two of however many billions, on a little planet circling a star which is just another blinking light amongst the countless, one that will only be noticed when it finally goes out. If at all."

 

He stared at her profile, feeling her hand entwine with his as they laid there. He'd never felt a connection with anyone before like he did with her right then, and he felt a little... odd.

 

"I like you, I really do," she said then, turning towards him with a smile backlit against the fading sunset. And he could feel his lungs seizing up tight. "I feel like... I don't know... like we're on the same page, you know?"

 

He could only stare and watch as she slowly got up, her bumble of a skirt fluttering around her. It looked so gorgeous.

 

"Well, come on then doll," she said while smoothing down the fabric. "You've got a 10 o'clock curfew and whatnot." She smirked and held out a hand.

 

And he took it, stumbling a bit over the uneven ground, and grasping her hand in his before stroking down his own skirt with the other.

 

Wait, what?

 

He glanced down at the voluptuous fabric of a circle skirt before glancing up at her again. She smirked at him... or her... oh whatever... as she pulled him along. It felt like something out of a movie really as they walked up to the convertible oldtimer.

 

She put the key in the ignition but didn't start it. He adjusted his skirts as he felt his naked thighs on the leather seats and fumbled for the seatbelt. It all felt so real... the cold metal in his hand that only slung around his waist; the fact that there weren't separate seats but more of a bench; the feel of the wind tousling through his hair as they sat there.

 

"Have you ever been kissed?" she spoke, her hands caressing the thin steering wheel. He found himself momentarily hypnotized by her slender fingers, they looked so graceful, before her words registered.

 

"What?" he blurted out.

 

She let out a laugh, the act making her hair bob around her face. There was a slight curl to it, just at the ends and he suddenly wanted to run his fingers through it.

 

"I know you heard. And it's a simple question – yes or no?"

 

He looked at her. She was glancing at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes, the kind she'd given him the first time they'd met, barely a few months ago. The kind that silently said – stick with me, and we'll have a grand adventure.

 

And he had, like glue, from that first day until forever if he could.

 

"You know I haven't. I tell you everything," he finally mumble out, picking at his dress. "And it's not like you have either."

 

"Well, it just so happens that I have." She gave him another of her trademark smirks and he looked up a bit startled. When had she kissed someone? And who?

 

"And..." she went on, "at the rate you're going, you are in terrible danger of dying an old maid," she stopped to snicker at his glare. "So, if we're ever going to get you with a guy, you better know how to do the whole kissing thing."

 

He could feel himself blinking at her, his throat suddenly dry while his heart seemed to be pounding at double time.

 

"So come here. It's no big deal. Just a kiss between friends." She unbuckled his seatbelt and scooted closer, her skirt rustling against his.

 

"Now, when the time comes, he'll make the first move. Maybe you'll be in a car just like this one, parked at the rendezvous looking over the city. And he'll slide an arm over your seat-rest, just like so..." She slid her arm over it and he could feel the warmth of it against the back of his neck.

 

"And maybe he'll ask if you're cold, and you'll probably mumble a maybe, and he'll slide a bit closer and offer to drape his coat around you. And you'll probably decline, because it's not that cold. And besides, now that he's so close to you the heat from his body is enough really."

 

She was quite close to him now, and yes, it really was enough. He could feel the side of her chest pressing up against his arm and he held in a shiver.

 

"And then you'll sit there for a while, pressed close to his side, with his arm over your shoulders. Just sitting there, watching the stars and listening to the night and his breathing."

 

And he did, but instead for his breathing it was her voice.

 

"And then he'll say something like, I think you're really pretty," she whispered into his ear with a mock-male voice and he let out a giggle that sounded closer to a snort. "And he'll let you laugh your nervous laugh, before saying: 'No, really, you're really pretty. And your smile, it could light up a room. And you smell really nice.' And then you'll grow still, because he'll bend down to smell your hair and your neck, just like this..."

 

And she did, and he did. He could feel the inhale along his skin, feel the heat radiating from her face so close to his. He'd only have to turn his head... just a little bit.

 

"And then he'll murmur into your neck, slow and soft: 'I'd really like to kiss you. Can I?' And you'll say..."

 

"Yes," he breathed out, almost inaudibly before swallowing.

 

"And you'll turn your head a little towards him as he brings up a hand to caress the side of your face, just like so." A gentle brush along his cheek. "You'll look into his eyes, so close to yours. And you'll keep your mouth closed as he starts to lean in slowly, slowly, and your eyes will fall shut just before you meet."

 

His heart was hammering in his chest as he closed his eyes, the fingers still on his cheek might as well have been burning so hot did they feel against his skin.

 

"Slowly, slowly," came her voice, and he could feel her breath ghosting over his lips. It made them tingle already, as if the blood was rushing up in anticipation alone. "And then your lips will meet," she whispered now surely only a hair's width away. "Like so."

 

Soft, so soft. And gentle. The barest of brushes, but his lips seemed to throb at the contact.

 

"And then he'll lean back, and murmur something like, was that okay? Though it obviously was, since your eyes are still closed."

 

He let out a laugh, blinking his eyes open at her.

 

"And then he'll lean in again, and it'll be a little firmer this time, but still your lips remain closed."

 

He couldn't deny the thrill that shot through him as she leaned in again. Yes, yes please. And he knew that it was wrong, that they shouldn't be doing this. They were both girls after all, and girls didn't kiss. At least not like this. But they were friends, and she was teaching him. Teaching him how to kiss.

 

So he let her place her lips against his again, more firmly this time, but still soft. And she brushed them against his, slowly moving them. And he couldn't help but respond. It was such a wonderful feeling, like his entire body was narrowing down and coming to focus on just one thing. The feel of her lips against his.

 

A sound escaped him then, one he'd never uttered before. Delicate and breathy, but as if coming from the very core of his being.

 

She sat back with a laugh, and his eyes snapped back open, missing the contact immediately. "My, you are a quick learner! Okay, this time, open your mouth a bit and follow my lead. But slowly, that's the trick to it, never everything at once."

 

She gathered her skirts to scoot up closer, and he turned towards her, and did as he was told.

 

 

Harry could still feel it when he woke – the tingle on his lips, the feel of her teasing tongue, her body pressed against his – so real, as if she'd just been in bed with him a moment before.

 

He drew a finger over his lips, finding them oddly sensitive and just a bit swollen. He traced his tongue over his bottom lip before drawing it between his teeth. Maybe if he imagined hard enough he could make himself believe she had just been there. That she was in the bathroom now, freshening up before she'd come to climb back into bed with him.

 

That she...

 

No, she wasn't.

 

A shiver racked his body just as his heart seemed to flare out with a pain that his mind couldn't even begin to comprehend. For this feeling was beyond his words. One of constant want and desperate longing, that vague burning for something he'd never known and probably didn't even exist.

 

It was threatening to eat him up alive and leave nothing but a shell, a husk of his former self.

 

Harry lay curled in his sheets, pressed into them as if gravity had just increased to a frightening level. And he knew one thing for certain – he wasn't going to make it out of bed today. For he suddenly felt so tired, so unbearably tired.

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

 

 

"Harry?" came a knock on the door.

 

"Harry?" a little louder a moment later.

 

"Harry, it's time for school."

 

He groaned something into his pillow.

 

"Harry. You need to get up."

 

A pause.

 

"Are you sick honey?" A hand on his forehead. "You do feel a bit hot. Okay, I'll call in for you. There are some leftovers in the fridge and tea in the cupboard. I've got to go to work."

 

He grumbled something as she left the room, glad to be released from it all, even if just for one day. And tomorrow was Saturday. Oh sweet release.

 

 

Monday rolled around more quickly than he would have thought possible, but he still felt sick and tired. He blinked at the alarm clock and felt it vibrating down to his bones. Nothing seemed less appealing than getting up right then, when the sky was still black outside his window.

 

"Harry? How are you feeling?" His mum burst into his room with energy he could only marvel at. All he wanted to do was sleep, just a little more.

 

She checked his forehead again and forced a thermostat between his lips.

 

It gave off a beep and she frowned at it, before nudging his chin up. "What's going on?" she asked.

 

"I don't feel so good," he drawled out, clutching his pillow underneath his face. He felt tired, so tired.

 

"Well, you don't have a fever. And it's been four days. Everything is telling me to send you back to school."

 

Harry blinked at her, feeling ten years old again. He really didn't want to go back to school. It was... it was... just the thought made him sink a bit lower.

 

"Alright, I'll let you have another day. But tomorrow..."

 

Harry smiled to himself as he nestled back into his pillow when the door shut. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

 

 

But tomorrow came.

 

 

"So, what seems to be the problem?" a worn-out doctor asked while checking his vitals with routine disinterest. The sky outside the window's blinds was a never-light gray.

 

Harry sat uncomfortably on a sterile sheet of rolled out paper in a hospice gown that was a little lacking in the back. It had been the trade-off with his mum today – go to the doctor or back to school.

 

"Well, I... I just feel really tired all the time," he mustered out, not sure how to answer that question really.

 

"Hmm hmm," the doc said while checking his blood pressure. "Any trouble sleeping?"

 

Harry swallowed. Sleep? No, but not a minute of it without his dreams. "Yes?"

 

The doctor finished up the physical and sat back down at the desk, motioning for Harry to put his clothes back on and do the same.

 

"I'd like you to fill out this questionnaire," he said as soon as he'd managed to scramble back into his jeans.

 

Harry sat down and tried to focus on the words on the sheet. Ten little questions:

 

Do you often feel tired? Check.

 

Poor appetite? Check.

 

Decreased interest in activities you once enjoyed? Check.

 

Difficulty concentrating on daily tasks? Definite check.

 

Thoughts of suicide? He hesitated, but then that odd moment waiting for the train sprung back into mind.

 

Check, check, and check.

 

Silly questions really, all boiling down to 'have you ever felt sad?' Anyone could be given this and they'd probably answer yes to most of them.

 

So he paid it little mind as he passed the sheet back to his doctor who took a quick glance at it before nodding to himself.

 

"I'd think it best if we start you on a low dose of antidepressants," he said matter-of-factly.

 

And Harry's insides froze up. He looked around the sterile room and sort of wanted to cry. Antidepressants? Seriously? Had it really come to that? Was he really that crazy?

 

"I have seen great results with these. I can also prescribe you a round of therapy to go along with it..." And with that he was handed two little sheets of paper and shoved back out the door. Just another patient. Done and done.

 

 

"So, what brings you here?"

 

Harry looked at his state-appointed therapist, who looked a day away from retirement. He squirmed a bit on the couch, feeling incredibly uncomfortable.

 

So he sat, unsure where to begin. The lady didn't make it any easier, seeming not inclined to ask the right questions.

 

"Well," he said, while looking at the awful painting behind her back. Sunflowers and clouds.

 

"My doctor wants me to go on antidepressants," he said, remembering his outstanding prescription that he hadn't bothered to fill. The thought alone still sent chills through him.

 

"I see," was all she said while looking at his file, and he wondered what his doctor had transferred in whatever code they communicated in.

 

She remained silent and he squirmed. This whole therapy thing had always seemed so odd to him. Why divulge secrets to someone he didn't even know? Someone he didn't trust?

 

But he decided to give it a go; it was worth a try after all and his insurance was paying for it. And maybe, just maybe she'd be able to give him some insight on this whole thing, a professional outside opinion and whatnot.

 

"And what do you think?" she eventually asked.

 

He looked at her, sitting there with his file in her lap. What did he think?

 

"I... I don't know. It just seems so drastic, you know? Sort of like giving up," he mumbled.

 

"Hmm," she pursed her lips which made wrinkles appear all around them. "Why don't you tell me a little about yourself, and we'll go from there?"

 

So he did, opening up as best he could and told his tale, from the beginning while mostly staring at the floor. About his feeling of disconnect from his peers, his questioning of his sexuality, his suicidal thoughts... he laid it all out there, everything but his dreams of course, and his obsession with someone who didn't even exist. But it still felt weird and disconcerting; putting it out there. Yet he hoped that at the end of it she'd be able to sum it up for him, to shed some light on it all. Though he was beginning to suspect she was a bit deaf when he had to repeat himself a few times.

 

His babbling finally came to an end and the room fell silent again. It was probably the most he'd talked in a long while.

 

"So what do you think?" he finally ventured, needing to hear it.

 

"Well, our hour is unfortunately up," she said, and his eyes snapped to the clock on the desk. Had he really talked that long? Next she'd tell him they could schedule another session – the grand cliche. What a waste of time.

 

"But should I take them, the pills I mean?"

 

"It's not an easy decision to make, but maybe they'll offer you a different perspective," she said while closing his file and placed it onto the desk before standing up.

 

Harry remained sitting while the words sunk in. He felt even more lost now than when he'd come in.

 

"But what do you think?" he repeated for he needed to know. She'd been making notes in his file the whole time and this was all she had to say? Maybe he should just grab the damn thing and make a run for it.

 

She stood before him, everything in her body language signaling that she was trying to usher him out the door. But he stubbornly remained sitting and fought against the urge.

 

"I think it might be possible that you're a bit..." she hesitated, "bored." She gave him a kind smile while he stared up at her. "And that most of these issues will resolve themselves with a different perspective. And sometimes some outside intervention, perhaps in the form of a low-dose antidepressant is just the push we need to get us out of the rut and onto a different path."

 

Harry could feel himself gaping at her. He almost wished then that he'd told her everything, while at the same time glad he hadn't. For what would her words have been then? I think you're bored and delusional?

 

"Perhaps you should see a colleague of mine next time," she said as she led him out the door. She had said other things as well, but he couldn't really remember them.

 

He took the card and said his goodbye, and hoped she enjoyed her retirement.

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

 

 

"Today we'll watch a documentary," his history teacher said as he switched on the screen. His classmates hummed in approval around him, an easy hour. They could sit back and zone out and think of what they'd do that weekend. The girl next to him had already pulled out her phone before the room even went dark.

 

But it was different for him. Scenes of war before his eyes - in black and white but real all the same. Explosions and trenches, mud and blood and snow. The camera caught a soldier's gaze and for one second he looked back, frozen in time. A boy not much older than himself, and the look in his eyes...

 

The boys in his class cheered at the explosions, at the sight of men behind high power rifles, at the fleet of planes in the sky like dark ravens, dropping fiery bombs down on the enemy.

 

The film cut to a city burning beneath it all, street after street of crumbling houses caught it flames. The film made it look grand, a bird's eye view devoid of judgment.

 

But he felt it, could taste it, like the blood on the lip he was biting into, bitter and dull. The fear, from all sides. From the ones holding the guns in shaky hands to the ones running from them. He could feel what it had felt like to be there, in that city, when the bombs started dropping with nowhere to go. Just a casualty in the midst of it all, trying to survive at whatever cost. And hoping, praying, that someday all of this would end, and that... someday... someday... someday better, they'd get to meet again.

 

His stomach twisted, and he stumbled up from his desk before thinking better of it. "I need to be excused," he told his teacher while feeling with the entire room staring at his back. Shit.

 

Thankfully he just nodded, and he barely made it to the washroom before clutching down over the toilet. It tasted like blood and mud as it left him.

 

 

His dreams that might were terrible. Probably fueled by what he'd seen, but they expanded along pathways he'd never been shown.

 

He was sitting in a concrete hall limb against limb, against walls thick to the point of being indestructible. But still they shook with each hit, and the air was thick to the point of being unbreathable. The girl next to him was cradling a child, cooing and rocking it, but still couldn't stop it from crying.

 

"The war is lost," someone said in a murmur, but they all heard. And they all knew. And they all sat and waited.

 

He adjusted his gown, the one he'd worn for the show that night. He'd had no time to change before the sirens came. But it had been the one he'd worn the last time he'd seen him. And somehow, somehow he was glad; that his last memory of him would be like that.

 

 

Harry gasped back to life, drenched in sweat. He tore the covers off himself and felt disgusted by how they clung to his body. His feet hit the floor and he stared at his alarm clock utterly awake. Three in the morning. Fuck.

 

Sleep didn't seem to be an option anymore, but he really didn't want to return to that place. He didn't want to know how it continued. He didn't want to know.

 

He fell back down onto his bed, pulling dry sheets around himself like a cocoon to swaddle him like a comforting shell. He curled up inside of them like a nest, one to keep him safe. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know.

 

But he did. And more than that, he had felt. Felt what it had been like. A dozen of lifetimes with all their tragic ends and terrible mistakes and horrible ordeals and unfortunate happenstances. It was a weight no one should have to carry; one that no one should have to remember. Maybe that was why nobody did.

 

But he did.

 

 

Session 2 of 5, as of his doctor's prescription. After that, it was a short trip down to the pharmacy and a fill of pretty little pills. For better or worse.

 

"Hello Harry," he said as he opened the door and let him in. It was in the same office building as before but his room was so much different. No terrible sunflower pictures for one. And where hers' had been awfully bright, his was dark and cozy.

 

"Hi," he found himself saying as he was motioned down onto a leather couch which he promptly sunk into.

 

"So you come to me as a referral from Tabitha," he said while flicking through the file. Harry nodded, once again wondering just what they were writing in there about him. There seemed to be an awful amount of pages, yet they'd told him nothing.

 

His new therapist spent a few minutes reading his file, leaving him free to stare at his face. He was pretty. Young. Much too young to be seeing clients surely.

 

His therapist's eyes snapped back up to his as if reading his thoughts, and Harry's flicked back down to his hands. Shit.

 

"Interesting," he said, and Harry looked back up, finding warm brown eyes looking back at him. "But I think there's something missing here."

 

A pause, where Harry's eyes shifted back down to his hands again, unable to keep the eye contact. Just what was he referring to?

 

"This mention of suicidal thoughts..." he prompted eventually. "Where did this come from? Boredom? Tabitha seemed to think so... but then again, it's Tabitha," the boy, okay man, let out with a laugh.

 

Harry shifted on the couch, his eyes landing on the door before dropping back down to the floor.

 

"Hey hey, we've still got forty minutes left," his therapist intercepted him and reached out to pad his hand in reassurance. Harry flinched without even meaning to, startled by the contact.

 

"Ah, I see," the man said while reclining back in his chair. Harry rubbed his hand and eyed the door once again. This was a waste of time. Maybe he should get that stupid prescription filled and be done with it. Maybe those chemicals would change something in his brain and he'd be different... someone else... someone more worthy to live this life. Someone who would forget.

 

"Hey hey, Harry, stop," the man said. "Where did you just go?"

 

Harry looked at him as he was torn out of his thoughts, and it seemed like he was truly asking and not just counting the minutes on the clock. It felt odd to have someone look at him like that. Like he actually cared. Like he was actually waiting for him to speak. Funny that.

 

It was so novel that any words he might have had dried up in his throat.

 

"Harry," came after a lengthy and very uncomfortable pause. "Where did they come from?"

 

He swallowed, wanting to be anywhere but there at that moment. How to put voice to something he couldn't even explain to himself?

 

"I... I don't know," he finally said. "It's not like I actually wanted to do it, you know? But it was just there, and I couldn't get rid of it. And the more I tried, the worse it got. And I hate myself for even thinking it."

 

"Harry, stop," came again, and he looked up, meeting a hard gaze. "Maybe Tabitha had it right, though her methods are a little, err... blunt. But the mind is a tricky thing. And when left unchecked it can lead us down dire paths, each feeding off the next all the way to the bottom. And is that really where you want to go?"

 

"Emm, no?" he answered, a little rhetorically for sure.

 

"No, of course not. For who does? So it's time to take control of those thoughts. They're yours after all, and you are in control. Start by cataloging what you think, don't judge, just make a note. What do you think of yourself? What do you tell yourself every day? What is your inner dialogue? If you had a theme music for yourself, what would it be?"

 

Harry looked at him, not sure how to answer. He'd never paid much mind to his thoughts after all, not until it came to that moment at the station. It was like breathing... something you didn't think about until you were short of breath.

 

"So I'd like for you to become aware of it, and write down every thought about yourself that you have this week. And I'd like to see you next Friday."

 

Harry stood up, not having spoken more than a few words in an hour. But somehow it felt alright.

 

"See you next Friday," he said with his patented smile, and his new therapist padded him softly on his back, and this time he didn't flinch.

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

 

 

 

"Pencils down," the teacher said and with that it was done.

 

He turned in his test, shouldered his backpack and left the classroom. His last class of the day, the last class before summer.

 

Kids were congregating in the hallways, making plans for their long stretch of vacation and somehow in no hurry to leave or say goodbye. But he walked passed them all and shoved open the double doors that lead to the outside. It was done. He was free.

 

School's out... for summer, came blasted from someone's car and he had to smile to himself. Yeah, school's out... forever.

 

The day was unbearably hot — the first real summer day they'd had this year — as if it had been waiting just for them. And he should feel glad, giddy with excitement like all his classmates seemed to be, looking forward to the good times ahead.

 

Yet somehow he couldn't get himself to feel it. It was a weight off his shoulders' of course, a few months without having to worry about homework or tests, or getting up every day to the same. Yet the thought of a summer with nothing to do didn't really fill him with excitement either.

 

Alright Harry, time to make a plan, he told himself. Maybe he should sign up for some classes, like karate or something. Something physical, something to keep his mind off things.

 

And fuck, he'd been doing so good at not thinking about it that he'd almost forgotten. But as soon as he did, there it was again.

 

Like a punch to the gut, and he tripped over a crack in the pavement. Someone let out a laugh behind him, but he ignored it and kept on walking. Just three little months, three little months with nothing to do. Nothing to do but think. Oh yeah, good times ahead...

 

 

"So how have you been Harry? Anything you want to tell me?" his therapist asked him at session 3/5. Two to go, and then it was pill time.

 

"Not really," he replied unhelpfully.

 

"Hmm," the man let out and Harry could feel himself being silently scrutinized. He really didn't feel like being here today and talking about himself. Why did people enjoy this anyway? It was so tiring.

 

"Any plans for the summer?" he was prompted.

 

"Well..." he let out slowly. "I was thinking about signing up for some classes, maybe martial arts or something..." he threw in just to have something to say. But to be honest, he hadn't even bothered looking into it. They were probably all full by now anyway.

 

"Oh, that's a great idea! I know someone who runs a place. It's a little out of the way, but that just means there might still be some spots open," he went on as if reading his mind and Harry tried to keep the frown off his face as he accepted the card. 'Liam's Kickboxing Studio' it read.

 

"I'll give him a call to let him know you're coming, he'll give you a nice discount," he beamed at him and Harry sighed. His therapist was turning out to be a real pain. He'd asked about it ever session from now on, that was for sure. Guess kickboxing it was.

 

 

"Nice, good form Harry," Liam called out as he held the pad for him. It was terribly hot in this glorified garage he called a studio, even with all the hangar doors open. He was covered in sweat barely ten minutes in and his hands were already aching even with the protective gloves. But somehow it was alright. He hit the pad again together with an exhale.

 

"Good, keep your hands up. Now doubles."

 

Harry did as he was told, striking in quick blows and switching his stance. Liam beamed at him. "Now kicks," he instructed and lowered the pad.

 

The side of his foot hit it with a satisfying thud and he could feel the sweat trickle down his back.

 

 

Mondays and Wednesdays were now kickboxing days, and Tuesdays and Thursdays weight training. Friday was yoga, which he'd tried his best to get out of, but Liam had someone managed to talk him into it, saying it was part of the summer package and much needed to keep his muscles loose.

 

His muscles. Harry let out a snort as he toweled himself off and threw a quick glance at the mirror. He still looked scrawny and somehow flabby... yet at the same time, he kind of had to admit he was already starting to feel some results. And truthfully, it was kind of awesome. A whole different body feeling... core strength — as Liam always preached — that made every movement feel different. Like he wasn't just flopping around the place, but each muscle was there with him, tight and with purpose.

 

Not to mention that all the while the rest of his classmates were probably spending their summer getting plastered and idling away in front of their game consoles. And here he was actually doing something constructive, something he had control over. It was a nice feeling somehow.

 

 

"So how are have you been after our last session?" his little imp of a therapist asked him with a smirk, and he kind of wanted to hug him. They'd switched up their meetings to every three weeks, to stretch it out as long as possible, and those three weeks had felt like a lifetime.

 

"Uhm, good actually," he said, and actually found himself meaning it.

 

"How's it been going with Liam?"

 

"Great. He's got me signed up for the summer package and we've been..." he found himself launching into his schedule while his therapist just smiled and nodded.

 

"So, sorry to end this on a sour note," the man finally spoke up again after he'd finished detailing his new diet plan. "But any more thoughts on taking antidepressants?"

 

That stopped him in his tracks, so excited he'd been about sharing his new routine. Antidepressants?

 

"Uhmm," he let out.

 

"I take that as a no then?"

 

"Uh, I don't really know. I haven't given it much thought."

 

"Well, that's a good sign, isn't it?" he beamed at him, and Harry grew silent. Was it really that easy? A little exercise and he dropped into bed each night too tired to think of anything else. Too tired to dream. But how long could that last?

 

"Alright, Harry. I'll see you in three weeks. And keep this up. I'm proud of you."

 

He was tapped on the back as he went to exit the door, though somehow not as centered as he'd been upon entering it.

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

 

 

 

"Keep your guard up!" Liam instructed as he switched before him.

 

Harry let out a huff, his side smarting where the hit had landed. Sweat was running down his face, his body was burning while every muscle ached in protest, but somehow he couldn't keep the grin off his face.

 

"Oh yeah?" he said and moved in, throwing a few punches that Liam all blocked, before landing an undercut beneath his defenses.

 

"Not bad, but don't forget those legs."

 

He threw in a sound kick, quickly retracting his leg before Liam could catch it. A quickly switched stance and another from the other side, hard and heavy, with a punch while his guard was down. Liam caught it anyway but he sent him a grin all the same.

 

"Good good!" he encouraged and moved in. Harry tried to throw in a knee to break his grip but was uprooted instead.

 

His back hit the mat with a smack and he tried to throw another punch, but the angle robbed it of strength. Before he knew it he was pinned down on the floor, his arm in some sort of strangle hold that seemed to warn that with just a little more pressure something would break.

 

"Pretty sure that would be considered a foul in kickboxing," somebody said from the sidelines as Harry tapped out.

 

Liam let up on the armbar and raised up, but didn't bother to get off of his back. Harry turned his head on the mat and squinted up at the figure. Black hair and a smirk, while his arms were slung over the ring's ropes, rocking a little to the beat currently blasting. He seemed somehow familiar.

 

"Zayn! What a surprise!" Liam called out, and still made no moved to release him. Harry wiggled a bit, but it was like trying to lift a concrete block with your glutes alone from this position.

 

"Don't tell me you've come to join finally? You know we'd have your scrawny ass in shape in no time. Just look at this guy — he couldn't do a push up when he arrived, and look at him now."

 

Harry wasn't sure who he was referring to, but Zayn let out a chuckle as he ducked under the robes and squatted down next to him.

 

"Hmm, yes, not bad," he let out with a whistle that may or may not have been sarcastic. Harry squinted up at him, trying to place his face.

 

"Yeah sure," Liam said, and Harry felt a sound smack on his ass before he was finally freed and lifted back to his feet. Zayn straightened up with them, and Harry found himself silently agreeing with Liam. This guy was incredibly scrawny, almost painfully so. And yeah, some part of him knew he'd looked no different at the start of summer, but shit, what a difference a few weeks could make.

 

It had been slow going at first, to the point where he'd almost thrown in the towel and declared himself a lost cause. Weeks and weeks, with nothing to show but non-existing muscles aching everywhere, making him hobble around like an invalid. Everything hurt, even muscles he didn't even know he had.

 

If it hadn't been for his nagging therapist he somehow felt accountable to and his even more nagging trainer who seemed to have made the conditioning of his body his own personal mission, he'd surely given up after the first midnight cramp. And, oh god, how terrible that had been. He'd been left curled up in bed whimpering, sure his leg muscle was about to tear right off his leg. But as they said, no pain no gain. Words right out of a masochist's mouth.

 

Liam's answer when he'd whined about it at their next session: 'You probably have a serious potassium deficiency due to your rapid muscle build. I'll hook you up with some supplements, and don't worry I'll get you a summer discount."

 

 

Harry mentally rolled his eyes at the memory. It was like Liam had become his personal dealer – albeit legal of course – from everything to his supplements, vitamins, to an intrinsically planned-out diet.

 

It had seemed ridiculous at first, but then, somewhere after week five when he'd already given up all hope of ever having a six-pack like Liam and charted it up to the genetic lottery, it somehow started to kick in. Almost from one day to the next.

 

He'd gotten up, a little too late as usual since it was summer and zombied his way to the shower in nothing but his boxer shorts. His sister had met him on the way and stopped dead in her tracks with a 'What the fuck.' His eyes had been barely open at that point.

 

'What?' he'd probably mumbled out.

 

'You... you're like really fit,' she'd said with a grimace and he'd rolled his eyes as he'd pushed past her. Because, whatever.

 

Yet later, when he'd finally woken up a bit from the shower and wiped the mirror clear, he'd taken a good look at himself. And fuck, his sister had been right. It was kind of weird, like looking at a stranger. He'd been so used to it for so long – the cute little kid, a little short, not really fat but nothing else really, but cute? And now here he stood, and... well... fuck.

 

The same stupid curly hair, still flattened by the shower but slowly springing up to its unruly mess as it dried. The same eyes, in that weird mix of colors depending on his clothes, and sometimes apparently, his mood. The same smile, the one that came so easy, sometimes without his asking.

 

And yet, it was different. The second puberty perhaps, and he let out a snort. No, mostly it was because he'd been working out like mad with Liam. And holy fuck.

 

He almost wished the bathroom mirror was floor length, because he kind of wanted to see. Was that a little vain? Yes, yes, it probably was.

 

Which was probably why he had no second thoughts about saying yes when his sister suggested a mall trip. It was, as usual, mostly about her, but after an hour or two she tired out and decided to focus on him instead.

 

So there they were, in some upscale retailer with price tags that made his eyes burn. But mum had given them a little money to burn for back-to-school gear, and the least he could do was to get some crap he was sure to wear over and over again. Because he would for he knew himself. And he'd try his best to somehow keep from repeat them within the same week as each day blurred into the next, though that usually proved to be somewhat of a challenge for 'whatever falls out first' had been his usual method of getting dressed at six in the morning. Oh fuck how he hated fashion.

 

All the same, there he stood on the platform in some overpriced boutique surrounded by mirrors on all sides. It was odd seeing himself like that, reflecting back from angles he usually never got to see. For it was one thing to sort of know what one looked like in a straight-on mirror and on the odd photo, but it was another altogether seeing it in 3D. And sobering too, since that was what everyone else saw all the time.

 

"I don't hate it," his sister announced as she swept in and placed another stack of try-ons in his arms. "Be right back with some accessories!"

 

Harry was left with an arm full of clothes and 8 mirrors to flank him from all sides. And each one of them told him the same thing.

 

Or maybe not told, but asked:

 

"Who is this?"

 

It echoed in his mind as he stood there, staring at himself. He'd changed. His body had changed, of that he could be sure for he'd done his best to make it so. And yet... and yet...

 

He didn't really know as he stood there. Was it weird to look into a mirror and not recognize yourself? Like you went all day with some sort of picture of yourself in your head, interacting with people, going on your way, and then a quick look at the end of the day comes to shatter it all? And it wasn't even that what he was seeing was bad. It was just... fuck.

 

Tears welled up at the thought – he could feel them – but he tried his best to quell them before his sister came back. Because she didn't need to know about this. As close as they were, there was no way he could explain this, for what was he going to say? "No worries, just having a minor freak-out because I don't recognize myself anymore?" Right.

 

"So, we've switched it up a little with mixed martial arts on Thursday," Liam was going on as Harry zoned back to the present. "I've got to wrap up class, but you mind hanging for a bit? We could catch a bite to eat after."

 

Zayn gave a shrug while Harry went back to trying to place his face.

 

 

"I know!" he blurted out forty minutes later while waving around a double-dipped chip. They were seated in the courtyard of a corner pup, famous mostly for its cheap beer and even cheaper grub.

 

"What?" Zayn mumbled around a mouthful.

 

"You were at that party... D's... sitting in the hallway, and you offered me a joint."

 

Liam let out a laugh. "Sounds about right."

 

Zayn narrowed his eyes at him, before giving a shrug. "Could be, don't really remember."

 

But Harry was almost certain now, and somehow relived that he'd finally been able to place him.

 

"Well, since you two know each other, all the more reason to join my class..."

 

"Oh for fuck's sake Liam... shut up about your bloody class..." Zayn groaned out.

 

"I'm just saying..."

 

"Yeah yeah, whatever..."

 

"No, but seriously..."

 

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

 

Harry let out a chuckle, somehow feeling utterly at ease even in the midst of their squabble. It was nice somehow... like he was actually hanging. Like he actually belonged.

 

 

"So did your friend ever make it out of the toilet?" he asked later over a joint. They had wandered down to the park and were currently sprawled over a picnic table. He'd been a little surprised when even Liam partook, but he'd just shrugged and mumbled something about it being weekend.

 

"What?" Zayn raised his head a bit off the table.

 

"At the party, you were waiting in the hallway for him..."

 

"Ehh... uh... oh, ohhh... that party!" Zayn let out a dry laugh. "Okay okay, now I remember. Shit. That turned out to be a right mess. Good thing you left when you did."

 

"Why?" he wanted to ask but Liam interrupted him.

 

"Let me guess who we're talking about here..."

 

"Like you really have to guess," Zayn let out with a sigh, and twitched a finger to beckon back his joint. Harry passed it back and looked curiously between them.

 

"Man, he's such a mess right now," he let out in a cloud of exhale.

 

"And that's coming from you," Liam said while stretching back against the bench.

 

Zayn didn't even bother to shoot him down this time, letting out a cough that turned into a laugh instead. "Yeah. But oh man, did I tell you..."

 

"Yeah, yes you did," Liam sighed and took a sip of the beer he was actually old enough to buy. One more year... or make that 7 months and two days. Not like he was counting or anything, Harry silently added.

 

"What happened?" he tried asking without sounding too eager. He wasn't usually the type for gossip, but he oddly wanted to know, if only to be in on this whole thing.

 

There was a silence, and Harry mentally groaned to himself as it stretched on. Good going self, he silently cursed at his social ineptitude. Next they'd tell him it was getting late and that they should really head back, and that'd be the end of it. Liam would continue being nice to him in class but never invite him out for anything again, because he was, well... Harry.

 

"It's getting kinda late," Liam said and Harry tensed up.

 

Seriously? A groan escaped him without meaning to though it felt close to a sob. He let his head fall back with a thud against the bench to wallow in the sky. It was overcast, just like always, but every now and then there would be a small break and a sole star would shine through.

 

'When I was very young, I used to think that the stars were just holes poked into the floor of heaven'.

 

Something tightened in his throat just then, not enough to choke his breathing but enough to make it burn.

 

A light pad on his exposed shoulder, icy cold, and he looked up to find Liam offering him his beer.

 

"Thanks," he muttered and took a deep swallow. Bitter and a little disgusting, but it somehow hit the spot. It washed away that horrible feeling in his throat, enough for him to ask again.

 

"So, what happened?"

 

Zayn let out a sigh from the top of the table and took another toke. "I'm not one to blab about friends man, especially not about stuff like this. But you'll probably meet him pretty soon anyway, so you might as well be prepared..."

 

Harry had never been more glad for the city's stinginess when it came to street lights, because the grin on his face right then was definitely better left to the shadows. But he couldn't help but revel in the fact that Zayn seemed to think that this might be more of a one-time deal. That they'd actually meet up again, with him, even though they were, like, older, and stuff... Harry rolled his eyes at himself, and was once again glad for the darkness.

 

But in his defense, Liam, old he was, owned his own bloody studio, and Zayn... well he was Zayn. And judging by his persona he probably had a motorcycle parked round back for all he knew and whatever else that may entail.

 

So he couldn't help the thrill that shot through him. Though the victory dance would have to wait until later, much later, like when he was in his undies alone in his room and door was locked.

 

"Yeah?" he let out, and his voice came out low and even. Nice.

 

"Yeah, he's a good friend of ours, but he's... a bit much sometimes," Liam threw in diplomatically.

 

"Maybe he should join the class as well," Harry countered and earned himself a chuckle from his teacher.

 

"Yeah, if only." He sighed. "I think I have a better shot with Zayn here."

 

Zayn let out another groan, keeping silent for a moment before flipping on his side.

 

"I don't know, maybe you just need to show him your little protege here, and he'll come banging down your door." Fingers threaded through his curls and Harry tensed up for a second before relaxing into it.

 

"Oh yeah?" he replied cheekily as Zayn continued to fondle his hair and he took another pull from the bottle.

 

"Oh yeah," Zayn whispered into his neck, suddenly much closer. The grip tightened a little in his hair, pulling his head back and Harry felt a sigh escaping him. He wasn't one to question moments when they happened, and yeah, this was definitely a moment.

 

"And why would that be?" he asked without thinking about it, without running it past the the triple filters he usually kept in place to save him from any more of those social blunders he always tripped over.

 

Another stroke through his curls rewarded him, and he couldn't help but melt into it.

 

"Zayn." Liam's voice interrupted them.

 

"Yes Liam?" Zayn said, but made no move to stop his hand. Harry slid down a little further on the bench, his worn soles kicking up loose gravel with a scrape.

 

"We really should be getting back. Harry here probably has a curfew."

 

Harry let out a groan, really wanting to protest. Though sad truth was, Liam was right.

 

"Ah, poor thing," Zayn chuckled against his ear. "But give me your digits and we'll see about next time. And maybe between the two of us we'll even managed to drag steel abs but no fun out along."

 

And with that he was lifted to his feet by a frowning Liam and a cackling Zayn who threw his arm over his shoulders as they walked back to the car.

 

Harry smirked to himself. It had been strange. And yeah, a little odd. But in some ways, perhaps one of the best nights ever.

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

 

 

"Don't forget to breathe."

 

Harry let out a huff, the pain spreading all along his side at the stretch. Their teacher was spread out before them in whatever pretzel position they were supposed to be emulating, and he couldn't keep from letting out a chuckle at the sight of them all. Like a gazelle hopping through the Serengeti followed by a bunch of rhinos.

 

Liam let out a groan next to him, looking even more pathetic in his attempt at the posture. Harry snorted to himself, feeling almost relieved that this was as much of a burden on him, for he'd been the one to force this terrible ordeal on them all week after week.

 

"Don't focus on those around you," their leggy yoga instructor went on. "This is about you, and only you."

 

Harry looked back at his mat and felt his muscles straining from holding the position. It seemed so easy, but always got to him in the end. Maybe it was the slow pace of it all, the endless holding and breathing. And more breathing. It left him too much space to think.

 

To the point where he yearned for the rest of the week, filled with high-impact cardio and circuit strength training, or speed conditioning on the bags that left his mind with nothing else to think about but the burn in his body, the ache in his fists and the sweat dripping down his face.

 

Boom boom boom, it went, his heart pounding in rate with the music as his fist collided with satisfying thuds.

 

But this... it was so fucking slow.

 

"And breathe in as you rise, stretching your fingers towards the sky. And out as you lower down half-way, stretching your arms out to the sides. Lower the left down towards the ground and the other up, and follow it with your gaze as your right legs steps back and your left bends. And breathe in, and out."

 

Harry had to squint at her to make sense of the instructions, and holy hell, thank god for yoga pants. Their instructor looked absolutely fit demonstrating the pose for them, while they waddled along to it, barely able to keep their balance. A thud and a curse to his left let him know that barely was an overstatement.

 

Twenty or some odd postures later, and he was suitable burned out to make a joke of it. All that was left was following her instructions and getting through it. 'The zone' some may call it, but he just didn't have the mind to think of much of anything else anymore.

 

"Alright, now I want you to lie down on your mats, and stretch out. Let it all go. Close your eyes. Savasana."

 

Harry let out a sigh as he laid back. This may just be his least-hated pose of them all.

 

"And since we have some time left, I'd like to try a short meditation with you. So take a deep breath in, hold it, and let it out through your mouth on the count of one, two, three..."

 

"And with each breath in, feel the energy returning to your body. And with each breath out, feel the tension escaping it. Feel your body relaxing, limp and heavy into the floor. Breathe in... hold... and breathe out..."

 

He could feel himself slipping into it all too easily after all the experimenting he had done with his tapes. His body seemed to hum with it, twisted and stretched in every possible way and now finally allowed to relax. It felt amazing.

 

"And I want you to focus on something, something that you really want. What it is, does not matter. Just something that is important to you. Maybe something you have always wanted to achieve. Or maybe something that you have always been missing. See it before your eyes... and then let yourself feel it. Feel what it would be like to have it."

 

Harry let a breath out, finding that floaty place of relaxation – his body at peace for once, letting his mind wander off to other things.

 

What did he want? What was he missing?

 

His subconscious seemed to let out a laugh and came to flood him with images as his calm breathing stopped in his throat. Of course, just everything he had been trying so hard these past weeks to forget.

 

A slide of fingers through his hair, a warm brush of skin against his shoulder, a bubble of laughter against his ear along with a whispered promise of adventure. Sunrises and sunsets. Rain and wind.

 

"Let yourself feel it, all of it," came her calm voice, so he let it, too tired to fight.

 

Let himself feel the brush of it, tearing at his hair. The burn of it in his eyes, when he'd lost her for good. The shock of shells at his back as his body pressed close. The look in his eyes, that first time, half-cast in shadows but still undeniable.

 

A startled breath returned after who knows how long, sucking in deep. But still he let it go on. Let himself remain open to it. Let himself feel it.

 

And it came, the burn. The kaleidoscope of something he couldn't name. Frustration, anger, doubt. Lust, want, desperate need. Like a spread of brilliant hues that had been thrown together by a careless hand until they became nothing more than a muddled brown.

 

There was a fuchsia once, one so bright it made your eyes water, he wanted to say. And an imperial blue so pure it could bring you to your knees.

 

"Now I want you to focus on this, and remember what it feels like. Does it feel good? Do you feel happy? Would you like to visit this place again?"

 

A good question indeed. For as his witch doctor had told him, the memories that traveled were always the most powerful ones. Everything that had led up to it was but shadows and heavy words between the lines. But there had to be a reason why it mattered so much and why it caused so much pain when it ended.

 

"For in feeling something out of our future," she continued, "we make it our present. For we've already been there in our minds, in our memories, and can visualize it as being so."

 

Right. She was probably speaking in more general terms, as in reaching that bench press goal or getting that job.

 

Yet he couldn't but try to visualize it. What would it be like? To actually meet him ... or well, her, in this life? What would he say? How should he act? What... oh fuck.

 

He could feel his nerves fluttering just at the thought of it alone, tingling all the way to the palms of his hands over a hypothetical situation that was never going to come to pass.

 

But what if it did? It sent another flutter through his stomach, his body tensing and in one fellow stroke negating whatever relaxing effect this yoga-thingy was supposed to have.

 

Would he act on it? Like if he saw him randomly somewhere. His heartbeat sped up as he laid there. And then say what? 'Hey, you. I've known you in every life I've lived. So, like, hey... want to hang out?'

 

He let out a humorless laugh, just in time for their instructor to call an end to the session. He groggily got up from his mat feeling exhausted, and couldn't think of a better place than home right then.

 

 

Except, as soon as he stepped inside the door he knew that something was off. The lights were dim, which wasn't that usual, but still... something was wrong. It felt oddly empty.

 

He didn't realize it fully until he looked through the doorway and found them sitting around the basket.

 

"Oh Harry," his mother said to him, a hollow smile on her face. "I'm afraid..."

 

Setting down his bag, he stepped into the kitchen, glancing at the dirty cups in the sink and barely-touched food on the table.

 

"She's been like this all day," his mum went on. "I'm afraid this is it."

 

He walked past them and knelt in front of the basket. His hand stroked along her fur, scratching in just the right places, the ones she liked the best. The ones where she'd purr and curl soft paws around his arm and tug him close. But she did nothing now. Her eyes were closed and her ribcage was still raising with each breath, yet somehow she looked dead already; her fur dull, like one of those terrifying examples of taxidermy.

 

He rubbed a hand over his face as he knelt there, feeling hands on his shoulder, from his sister or his mother, he wasn't sure. He just couldn't believe that this was real. That this was now.

 

Okay, so maybe it was only a cat, but still. She'd been there as long as he could remember. Curling up with him for naps, scratching at his door when he couldn't sleep, meowing for scraps when they were alone in the kitchen together. Waiting at the door for him when he came home.

 

And now.

 

He stroked over her face, and tried to say goodbye, if such a thing was possible.

 

They waited up until four in the morning. His mum and sister said goodnight at some point but still he remained.

 

Sometime around seven the sun started to come up and the birds started chirping. His knees were aching and he may have nodded off at some point. But something brought him back.

 

He looked down at the basket, and watched her ribcage raise one last time.

 

"Goodbye old friend," he muttered out as his hand touched fur. It was a beautiful death, if there could ever be such a thing. No pain, no struggle. And yet he felt a part of himself grow numb with it.

 

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

 

 

 

 

He'd shown up for the lesson, but his heart wasn't really in it.

 

Truth was, he wouldn't have gone at all if his mum hadn't offered him a ride on the way to her late shift. She'd given him a warm smile when he'd just nodded and gone to grab his bag and he'd known it had been the right decision. It would have taken too much energy to explain anyway, and he knew she'd have spent all night worried about him.

 

So better just to go along with it, routine as usual, and try to get through it.

 

 

Thud. The blow hit him square against the side of the face and made his neck snap a bit. It hurt, even with the protection.

 

Another hit, muffled a bit this time by his sorry attempt at a block.

 

A grip against the back of his neck and the hollow seize of a knee to the stomach.

 

His back hit the floor with little resistance, almost offering itself up. Another hit to the face and then his arm was being pulled back, trapped between the vice of strong thighs.

 

He let out a groan and tapped the mat with his free hand to show his submission. And was glad it was over.

 

"Harry!" came Liam's voice from the sidelines, sounding a little gruff.

 

His sparring partner helped him up, clapping him on the shoulder as he let out a wheeze. His stomach was still trying its best to curl up into a little ball.

 

"What the fuck was that?" Liam asked when he'd made his way off the floor. He winced a bit at the curse.

 

Tearing off his protective gear, he ran a hand through his annoying hair; even with a headband it still managed to tangle all over the place and stick unpleasantly to his skin. Sometimes he had half a mind to shave it all off like Liams' – it seemed oddly freeing. Except for, well, he'd probably look incredibly stupid with a shaved head.

 

Liam was still looking at him, though something in his face shifted as he took him in. "Hey, what's going on?"

 

He shifted his weight a bit, unable to get the truth past his lips. 'Well, my cat just died and I'm feeling all kinds of depressed and lonely right now' sounded so ridiculous even to his own ears. But it was the truth.

 

"I'm just feeling a bit off tonight," he went with instead.

 

"Hmm," Liam gave him another look before nodding. He could tell he wanted to ask what was really going on, but Liam wasn't the kind of guy to probe, and for that Harry was glad.

 

"Well," his trainer went on. "Looks like there just might be something to get your mind off things later. Zayn's throwing a party..."

 

"Not sure if I'm up for that tonight," left his mouth before he could catch himself and he internally winced. Great, here came the novelty of Liam inviting him to a party thrown by freaking Zayn, and he'd just shot it down point-blank. Good luck ever getting a repeat of that.

 

He silently continued to beat himself up while also realizing how very much he really didn't feel like it. His bed and whatever junk food still in the cupboards were calling him, together with whatever mind-numbing show that was on when he switched on the TV.

 

But Liam just clapped him hard on the shoulder instead, "No buts. Zayn will have my head if I don't drag you along. Now move to the bags and work on your legs for the last half-hour."

 

Harry rubbed his shoulder when his back was turned and sighed to himself, before squaring up with an opponent who couldn't hit back.

 

 

The party was a world away from the last one he'd been to, however many moons ago that was. For one, it wasn't so awfully crowded. Another was the music – it was pumping for sure, but not of the cringe-worthy current top of the charts crap that made him wish he'd been born in another decade. And another, of the people who were here, they seemed to be mostly of age and for the most part somehow... cooler.

 

A girl, no, woman passed him sporting a half-sleeve and a flood of red hair done up in pin-up style and he could only stare after her stupidly. Zayn certainly had some interesting friends.

 

He let Liam take the lead, feeling entirely out of place – like a tag-along to his older sister's party. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to act? Just try and blend in as everybody gave him a happy if condescending smile while secretly trading looks behind his back, all knowing he didn't really belong here...

 

As they slowly made their way through the place he couldn't miss the way his trainer was getting some appreciative glances as they passed. From boys and girls alike it seemed, an odd mixture of lust and envy; which wasn't that surprising really, not with that body of his barely covered by a loose tank top. Though then again, amusing too, since it would probably take a bouquet of roses to the head for Liam to even realize someone was interested.

 

Harry bit back a grin at the image, but stopped a bit short when he noticed some of those same pairs of eyes checking him out as well. Well, that's something new... He quickly avoided their gazes, feeling a little uncomfortable.

 

 

"Oy, oy!" Zayn waved up at them from the patio's swing with a joint in hand when they finally made it out back.

 

"Knew I'd find you here," Liam said while throwing himself down beside him, a nice looking blonde and a vamp of a brunet making room for him.

 

"Good work Liam my boy," he said while grabbing him to kiss him on both cheeks with loud smacks. Liam let him and only gave a chuckle in response.

 

He turned towards him next, and Harry's eyes widened a bit. He was still standing awkwardly at the screen door, not really sure what to do with himself.

 

But Zayn just grabbed him and gave him the same two kiss on the cheek thing as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And it felt nice somehow – not a stiff handshake, not an awkward hug, and not one of those stupid gang fist bumps. Just a quick peck, a quick hello, letting him know he was welcomed here and among friends.

 

"Come on, let's get you guys something to drink."

 

 

Which was how Harry found himself a little while later, with a cup in hand that curiously never seemed to go empty and in the middle of a boisterous patio party. Zayn was sprawled out next to him, casually rolling a joint with a leg thrown over his lap and his back pressed against Liam, who was busy giving earnest workout advice to some guy on his left. On his right was that redhead from before who seemed to have found a liking to his curls. Harry couldn't complain, though it did feel a little surreal.

 

"So, how do you know Zayn?" the brunet to her right was asking him.

 

"Well, through Liam really. I go to his gym."

 

"Oh, I can tell," she leaned over and gave him a quick squeeze around the bicep and he let out a nervous chuckle that he tried to hide in his drink.

 

"Psh psh," the redhead let out and slapped at her hand. "Don't embarrass the boy. You know he's still getting used to this. Can't be easy, going through Liam's summer program and coming out a whole different person. But let me tell you, whatever he's doing to you, it's working."

 

She stroked through his hair again and gave him a quick wink before calling out for a refill. The self-appointed mixologist stepped out onto the patio and gave his shaker another flip before letting it flow into her upraised glass. She took a delicate sip before raising it again with an appreciative salute. He nodded solemnly before turning to him. "What will it be."

 

Harry frowned down at his cup, finding it for once nearly empty.

 

"Ehh, I don't really know..." he flushed a bit as he heard a few snorts and cackles around him. He wasn't any good with this cocktail business.

 

"Hmm, well, that's a real shame. For as they say, cocktails are a bit like sex..." More laughter interrupted him, but he raised a finger with drunken earnestness. "It's your mission in life to weed out the things that you don't like... the crap that brings you down... and to find the things that you do like... the ones that can bring you up to a whole new level. And to never settle for just good enough."

 

"Amen," the girl to his left raised her glass again.

 

"So, that means that our mission for tonight is – finding just what Harry's favorite cocktail is, and all the rest will follow."

 

Harry let out a laugh as the patio erupted into cheers and salutes of 'ays'. It was absurd really, this whole thing. But at the same time it felt awesome somehow to be included. He still felt like the odd man out, the baby of the group, but it was okay somehow. Like they were looking out for him, and through their easy casualness he felt free to wriggle into another level of social competence that he never could have with people his own age. For there was none of that stilted ice that came with trying to navigate that awkward maze of people who were just as unsure.

 

No, for these people had been where he was now and had moved passed it. And they knew the way out.

 

"Thanks," he whispered into Zayn's ear.

 

Zayn turned his head and gave him a slow smile before leaning in, "Don't thank me yet."

 

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

 

 

 

"Okay, time for some games," one of the girls called out, brandishing a deck of cards in one hand and a bottle of Jack in the other. She was met with a collective sigh of groans.

 

"Fuck, I'm in no state for card games," Zayn complained beside him.

 

"Okay, fine," she huffed and placed the cards on the table. "Guess we've got to dumb it down for you lot. Spin the bottle it is!" she gave a cackle and placed it on the floor. "Come come now," she motioned towards the deck's floor with authority, and they let out more groans in protest but followed all the same.

 

"Alright, let's get this party started," she said as she spun it.

 

"I'm not making out with Zayn's dog this time," someone threw in as the bottle rotated.

 

"That's what you get for making me get a tattoo."

 

"Whatever, you can barely see it. And that's not half as bad as, well, that one thing I had to do last time..." There was a round of coughs that sounded a bit like stifled laughs.

 

"Yeah yeah, better be a little more creative this time, the lot of you."

 

Harry's eyes widened a bit as he sat back, feeling a little out of his element again. Sounded like these people really played for keeps, and he just hoped the thing wouldn't fall on him first.

 

But of course it did.

 

"So," the host let out, looking him up and down. "Truth or dare sweet-cheeks? Oh, and you can always pass of course, but then you have to drink a shot of whatever we decide to mix up for you, and let me tell you, that is never a good time." The girl next to him let out a shiver, and he could only imagine just what that shot might contain.

 

He took a sip of his drink as he contemplated his fate. Both options seemed to be somewhat horrible and possibly incredibly embarrassing. But then again, when in Rome...

 

"Dare," he said with a smile.

 

The group hooted around him, and the girl clapped her hands. "Alright then. Alright..."

 

They all continued to chatter as she scanned around and pursed her lips.

 

Another moment passed, and she held up a finger to quiet them.

 

"Alright, alright!" She dropped her hand back down and stared right into his eyes. Harry tried to hold her gaze, but couldn't help but sway.

 

"I dare you..." she paused and Harry swallowed, anticipating either soft-core bestiality or cleaning out the bottom of a toilet bowl with his tongue. Neither would surprise him with this crowd. "To lick an ice cube to a complete melting point on Zayn's stomach with only your tongue."

 

Harry let out a snort, knowing Zayn would probably protest at this. But before he knew it there was a block of ice being placed down and an expanse of bare skin before him. Holy shit.

 

So he moved closer, the pound of alcohol running through his veins as he closed his lips around it. It was bigger than a mere ice cube, more of a shard really; something they had probably pounded out of the very back corner of the refrigerator.

 

It burned around his lips and Zayn shifted underneath it, clearly feeling it against his groin. It couldn't be comfortable having a block of ice on top of your crotch after all.

 

So he picked it up with only his mouth, careful of the rules after all, and placed it back down just a little higher. Zayn let out a hiss nonetheless, curling in at the contact.

 

"Fuck that's cold," Zayn whined.

 

"Only your tongue I said!" the girl called out from behind him. "Start lapping pretty boy."

 

Harry rolled his eyes but did as he was told, flicking his tongue against it and hoping it wouldn't stick in place. Fuck, this was going to take forever.

 

The bottle spun again behind him as he continued to lick, and lick, and lick. Some of it was starting to melt and run down Zayn's stomach and the boy lifted his head off Liam's lap.

 

"You're going to get that right? Because it's super cold," he grumbled before placing his head back down.

 

Whatever grimace those words formed on his face was obviously a hilarious one, for Liam let out a laugh beside them. He glared up between licks, and Liam only laughed harder.

 

Bending down a little further, he caught the trail of icy liquid running down, laying his tongue flat and sucking a bit. Zayn gave an involuntary twitch and tried to cover it with a cough.

 

"How you doing over there boys?" the brunet called out. They'd obviously gone on with the game while Harry tried to finish his impossible task if the "Shit no!" behind him was anything to go by.

 

"Fuck, I'm so getting you back for this," Zayn groaned and tried to keep still while Harry traced back up.

 

She let out a cackle. "Ahh, don't be like that. I know you're probably ready to burst out of those jeans. And looks like Harry there is really getting into it."

 

Harry could feel a blush rise at that, and had to stop for a second. Zayn let out a huff beneath him while his entire stomach flushed with goosebumps.

 

His tongue darted out to run over them without even meaning to and Zayn let out another huff.

 

"So getting you back for this..." he said and threw an arm over his eyes. And Harry had to bite back a smirk between licks. This was kind of fun actually.

 

"Alright, Liam, you're up. And Harry, you still get a turn whenever you finish with that." He let out a hum and went to catch the water that was running down the side.

 

"Truth," the boy said and Harry's ears picked up. This was certainly going to be interesting.

 

"Hmm, okay. Truth. Is watching Harry lick ice off of Zayn turning you on?"

 

Harry let out a chuckle against Zayn's skin, who let out another huff just as Liam let out a groan.

 

"And answer truthfully, or I'll make Zayn check."

 

"Uhmm..." he stammered. "A little?" It came out a little squeaky and Harry had to hide his face again. This was just so weird. He wasn't sure how he could ever look his trainer in the eye again after this.

 

"A little? Zayn..." And with the barest prompt Zayn reached his hand back and gave the boy a good cupping.

 

"Well, I wouldn't say... little," he let out before placing his arm back over his eyes, but it couldn't hide the grin on his face.

 

Harry flicked his eyes up and caught Liam's look of mortification.

 

"Not enough booze in the world," he muttered before bottoming out his cup.

 

It quickly escalate from there, with him having to make out with everyone in the round and Zayn being somewhat innocently dared to sit in Liam's lap for the rest of the game among other things.

 

"Oh my god, stop squirming!" Liam continued to complain off and on, and the group erupted into laughs and cackles every time.

 

"Alright, Harry."

 

He finished another drink, having long lost count of where his tally was. "Truth," he threw out just for variety's sake.

 

"Tell us about your first true love," the redhead said.

 

 

And something stopped, sobering him up with one fellow swoop.

 

 

"Uh oh, someone get the boy another drink, shit's about to get heavy," someone said, and Harry winced a bit, never realizing how transparent his expressions obviously were.

 

A fresh glass was pressed in his hand as the circle quieted, all waiting for him to speak.

 

He took another sip, contemplating just telling them a lie, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to do so. They were all a little drunk after all, and he didn't really know them. So what was the point of lying? And somehow... somehow he kind of longed to talk about it. About something he never thought he could share with anybody, something he'd been carrying around all this time like a terrible, silent burden.

 

So he steeled himself and started, for better or worse:

 

"Well, it was love at first sight really. The moment we met, something just clicked into place," he got a coo of awws from the group. "I had never thought it could work that way, but I guess sometimes it does. But things weren't easy. I was from a poor family, and he, well he wasn't. Maybe that made it more intense, the fact that we couldn't... shouldn't be together. But I... I also felt like there was more to it than that. If things had been different, I know it would have lasted for a lifetime and it would have been perfect."

 

His eyes were stinging and he quickly took another sip to clear the burn in his throat.

 

"So what happened?" one of the girls asked, and he could feel the atmosphere shift around him. Someone had added some kindling to the grill, turning it into a makeshift fireplace. It was crackling now as the light slowly drained out of the sky.

 

"I... I don't know really," he mumbled out looking at the deck he was sitting on.

 

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

 

"Well, it's a little complicated. See... I got this present to see this... lady..." and with that he stumbled into it, and told them everything.

 

 

"Holy fucking hell," was the first response he got when he finished. They had crowded around him as he'd gone on, the fire still glowing behind them in the night.

 

"Oh... sweetheart," the redhead crooned and wiped at her face. "That is... that is just so fucking incredible and amazing and oh fuck, so fucking tragic. I can't believe that... well it's out of a movie really. Lovers across time, and every time it doesn't fucking work out." She wiped at her face again, shaking out her hair as if to get a grip.

 

Harry squeezed his arms around his legs tighter, feeling the need to become as small as possible. Maybe it had been a huge mistake to tell them, for now that he saw their reactions it just felt all the more awful. What had just been a constant simmering ache before had now blossomed into a gut-wrenching sort of pain he could do nothing about.

 

"Alright, I think it's time for bed everyone," she said and was greeting with a quiet murmur. "You're sleeping with us tonight love, and don't worry, we'll keep you safe."

 

And with that he let himself be pulled to his feet.

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

 

 

 

 

It was something out of a film really. These sorts of things just didn't happen in real life. He was still trying to wrap his head around it though it seemed to be floating on auto-pilot.

 

They'd found his beverage of choice at last, a nice cocktail with a sharp sparkle of effervescence and promise of endless summer. It went down easy, and fast.

 

Which was probably the thing to blame at the current state of affairs. It had flowed so easily.

 

It was odd, this feeling. He'd never been one to crave the center of attention, at least not in this life. He was always happy just skirting the sidelines and waiting for whatever everyone else brought to the table. After all, in some way or another he'd seen it all – what point was there to retell things he'd already been through.

 

Though as he watched their faces he was a little in awe when he realize they were actually listening; that he had their attention and they weren't just waiting for their time to talk. It was startling somehow, while also being a little bit heartbreaking.

 

 

"So, I have a question for you," it had gone. He'd taken a sip while nodding and now here he was.

 

"Will you go down on me?" she asked while twisting her hands in the pillows above her head.

 

"Do you want me to?" he muttered, his voice oddly husky even to his own ears. Her naked body was writhing underneath his hands, spread out and on display and he still couldn't believe it.

 

"Yes," she breathed and hid her face in the crook of her tattooed arm, the tumble of her red hair curling along the side of her face.

 

So he'd gone down, some part of his mind shut off for the time being and just letting himself glide into the moment. Into the experience. This was now after all.

 

Her skin was soft and neatly shaved, but he could still feel it prickle against his face which somehow brought a certain edge to it. This wasn't some barely legal girl, no, this was the real deal.

 

His tongue darted out, meeting slick skin and a soft taste of musk. But it felt right somehow. He guided two fingers down and inside, twisting up as he continued to lap at her. A stifled mewl and a tightening of legs rewarded him and he marveled at it – that he could cause this.

 

"Oh fuck, that's so hot," came a voice from behind him, along with a stroke up his backside.

 

Harry let out a hum which seemed to travel all the way up. The redhead let out a shaky laugh beneath him as he sped up the rhythm of his fingers.

 

There were soft nips along his backside now as he continued to go down on her. She was moving now, apparently unable to contain herself at the feeling and he couldn't blame her as a tongue flicked down on him in turn. Fingers followed, an odd sensation, but they quickly found their mark.

 

"Fuck," tore out of his throat though he tried to stifle it against her smooth thigh. She twitched underneath him and he could only gasp again as those digits zeroed in, pushing and rubbing, sending a hot flurry of sparks straight to his groin. This was insane. So fucking insane. He'd never thought to catch himself in the middle of a threesome, but there it was.

 

"Please please," the redhead let out underneath him, her gaze a pander of lust. And he could only nod, grabbing a condom and thanking whatever stars that he wasn't too drunk for this. She took it from his hands and scooted down a bit to slip it on, with her mouth.

 

Harry let out a huff at that, fucking hell; his arms gave a tremor as he tried to hold himself up. Her mouth was warm all around sliding down, and if he hadn't been fully there before, he certainly was now.

 

She let out a chuckle, petting his length in passing as if in quiet admiration before splaying back down on the bed and giving him a slow grin.

 

He guided himself in slowly, so slowly, his insides doing a double-flip all the while. How was this real? Fuck.

 

Fingers continued to move with it, matching his rhythm, his slow thrusts, and he had to stop for a moment to catch his breath in her lovely hair. It came out in slow gasps, pulling in her scent while his whole body felt on fire. This... this... well, whatever this was, it wasn't a memory he was likely to forget any time soon.

 

He had to let out a breathy laugh at that, feeling the sweat starting to blossom on his skin. How funny would that be to send along to his future self? Yeah, there were a whole lot of shitty times, but hey, there was this one time...

 

His laugh got caught in his throat as he felt the man behind him pushing in, turning it into a groan at the stretch of it – at the pain of it. All movement stopped as he seized up, his hands clawing at the bedsheets as he tried to keep himself in place.

 

"Hey, hey, love," she said, bringing him back out of it. "Hey," she said, and kissed the side of his face and then the other. A hand came up to stroke through his hair while thighs wrapped just a little tighter, pulling him in further.

 

And with another thrust from behind, a change of angle, a squeeze of thigh, a hand on his hip, and suddenly Harry seemed to be blindsided by it all. It seemed to hit him from all sides at once. Holy fuck.

 

Who knew, who knew, he thought as her cries mingled with his groans, slowly building until they probably ended up traveling through every wall in the place... but then again, he didn't really care.

 

 

They reconvened on the patio for postcoital drinks and cigarettes – at least for those who were still left standing. Most of the crew had either left or crashed for the night as usual, but somehow sleep had never been further from his mind after that; his skin somehow crawling instead, as if it had finally been woken up and never wanted to sleep again. It was an odd hour of the morning as they sat there in half dress, their naked feet catching the dew off the wooden patio with the herald of the dawn chirping out its lonely song behind them.

 

Zayn was still where he'd left him, though he was sure he'd had something inbetween if his smile was anything to go by.

 

"All good?" the boy asked him between tokes, his legs once again draped over whoever was sitting next to him, one of which Harry just may have happened to have had sex with.

 

But he couldn't find himself to mind. This was different somehow. A friend of a friend's for sure, but still easy in its way. Nobody was looking for possession here after all.

 

"Yeah, all good," he said and accepted the toke. Another drink was pressed into his hand and he accepted it without thought, though at this point it all tasted like water to him.

 

"So tell me about your love," Zayn asked and Harry didn't know how to respond, because really, what could he say?

 

So he said nothing, taking a sip of his drink while the sky behind him slowly blossomed back into day and made it all feel wrong somehow. Beautiful... terribly beautiful, but also somehow taboo – like something you weren't supposed to see. For all the good folks of the world were in bed right now, getting a full night's rest to be ready for another worthy day tomorrow – so who were you to be up at all to see this glory?

 

Harry let out a laugh as he leaned back, soaking it in as he let out a little drunkenly, "Who am I to be worthy?"

 

Zayn mustered him in silence as a bird chirped on and was quickly echoed by another kilometers away. Together they built a backdrop together, sight unseen.

 

"Well, I think," the redhead whispered into his neck as she pushed off the swing with a bare foot, "Sometimes you need to feel worthy. Stop trying to forget, and start to remember. It's as simple as that. See your love in your life, and believe it. See them here, now, and feel it. Feel what it is like. How happy you are. And hold on to that – every. fucking. day. And before you know it, they will find you for real."

 

Harry blinked at her, wishing he could ever be that optimistic.

 

 

 

"So this is to be our last session," his therapist told him and Harry nodded before looking down at his hands.

 

There was nothing he could do about it really. His insurance had only agreed to cover this much and he really couldn't afford to float the bill on his own. And yet, he was going to miss having someone to check in with regularly. Someone partial to it all, who stood outside of judgment or social obligation; who knew what was going on in his life and could give him honest feedback. It was reassuring somehow, like he wasn't just floating through it all on his own.

 

Which probably should seem strange, because not so long ago he'd scoffed at the very idea of having a therapist at all. It had always seemed like one of those last resorts in his mind, for the people that were close to certifiable. But now that he'd found one that wasn't quite so crazy or, err, deaf, he kind of hated the idea of letting him go.

 

"Yeah," he mumbled out.

 

"So how have things been going for you?" he said while flipping through his file. "You're looking quite... well."

 

A smile tugged at his lips and he looked up, finding his therapist giving him a poker face. It only made him grin harder.

 

"Anything you'd like to share?"

 

"Well..." he coughed, "I'm still training at Liam's three nights a week..." He got a nod. "And well, he invited me over to a friend's of his, Zayn, last weekend. And he had a whole bunch of people over. It was a little weird at first, you know, being around so many people you don't know. But they were really nice, and like, they really tried to included me," he rambled on but got only encouraging go-on sounds in response, so he did, "And, I don't know, we, well, there might have been a... well, a lot of booze being passed around and I was pretty wasted, but I also got the feeling like I really connecting with them, like I wasn't just an awkward flower on the wall for once but a welcomed center of attention. And that was a nice feeling. I don't think I've ever felt that with a group of people before and I... I don't know, I wish it could be like that all the time."

 

He gave him a smile. "Hmm... yes, there's a reason alcohol is the social staple that it is. It allows us to push past those walls we've built for ourselves for some reason or another and come closer to who we really are underneath. As the saying goes, in vino veritas – the truth is in the wine," he said with a chuckle.

 

"But at the same time," he went on becoming a bit more somber, "it's important to remember that the person you are while under the influence is still you. The alcohol is just a facilitator, just like anti-depressants are. They show you what's inside of you, what it's like to feel a different side of you. And if you like those aspects of your personality, then remember them – remember what it felt like when you exhibited them and try to emulated them in your everyday life. The joy, the euphoria, the moment of letting yourself be without fear of judgment – without needing a bottle in your hand or a fist full of pills to allow yourself to feel them."

 

Harry stared at him while his words sank in. It was a wonderful thought after all, to just let yourself become that person – the one that everyone wanted to be around, the one everyone wanted to be friends with, the one everyone wanted to love. If only he could be that person, all the time.

 

But he wasn't. And as he took a deep breath in he felt it, just what his therapist was warning against. He thought about the next party and how his first instinct would be to get drunk to the point where it all would flow again. Not stupid drunk, but social drunk.

 

"So, our hour is up," his therapist interrupted his train of thought. "It has been a pleasure working with you, and I hope you keep these thoughts in mind. I think you've got a lot in you still, just waiting to be expressed."

 

He took his hand as they stood up, squeezing it tight. "Oh, and say hi to Liam for me."

 

"Sure thing," he said and gave him a smile. "Thanks Niall."

 

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

 

 

 

 

**19 minutes.**

 

Harry let out a groan. Typical. Here he was late already, and the fucking train was doing nothing but its very best to make it even worse.

 

19 minutes. 19 fucking minutes, where all he could do was stand there and wait, shifting slowly from foot to foot.

 

 _Tick tick tick_ it went. And then an update in barely audible static: "Sorry for the inconvenience, but there is somethingsomething. We will update you as soon as possible."

 

Harry sighed to himself as he leaned back against the railing behind him. It was no use getting pissed off about these sorts of things for they were out of his control. So yeah, it might be his first day back to school and he was going to be late, but fuck it. If they were going to mark him down for the fact that he didn't own his own car and relied on public transportation, then fuck them.

 

He took another breath, and tried to cast it all from his mind.

 

This was just a minor hiccup, and he'd come far, much further than he'd ever thought possible. The person that had left school before summer wouldn't recognize the person he was now, for that he was sure. Not only had he gained control of his body, he'd gained insides to his mind as well. He wasn't the same person. And for that he was glad.

 

For another year stretched out before him, but it wouldn't be the same. Sure he'd have to deal with the same crap he'd been forced to deal with all of his formative years, but now it would be somehow different. Because he knew.

 

Her words echoed back to him, "See your love in your life, and believe it."

 

And yeah, maybe he didn't quite believe it, not yet, but he was getting there. It was a nice thought after all – that if you believed something strongly enough, if you felt it truthfully enough in your very being, then the world would align itself to make it so.

 

And who knew, maybe there was some truth to it; even if the fact of just opening himself up to the possibility alone would make him more likely to respond in the right way if the opportunity ever presented itself.

 

And if it didn't, well then maybe that was the way it was supposed to be this time around. A quiet sort of love. A recognition of what he'd had in the past and let slip away. And maybe... maybe... that was the real lesson he was supposed to learn. A life filled with memories of things he'd never had, of feelings he'd never felt, the burn of an unrequited love that would never leave him no matter how hard he tried to forget. And truthfully, he didn't really want it to. Not anymore at least.

 

So he'd carry it with him instead everywhere he went, like a flame that would only burn him if he tried to grasp it too tightly – if he tried to get too close. And how ever much it hurt to know he could never truly have it, it would have to be enough to admire it from afar, because the very thought of extinguishing it completely – even if it would kill the pain – just made a whole different kind of pain rise inside of him.

 

Harry ran a hand over his face as he squeezed his eyes shut. Oh fuck. He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, before looking at the board. It swam a bit and he had to blink a few times before making out the number. 15 minutes. Right.

 

Rummaging through his bag in light of something to do, he withdrew his phone only to grimace at the hopeless tangle that were his headphones. Seriously? How did these things even...

 

Breath, breath Harry, he told himself as he quietly went to untangle them, the action at least quieting his mind a bit. He'd finally gotten them close enough to reach his ears when he switched on his phone. Low battery.

 

Harry closed his eyes again. It was only six thirty in the morning but this was slowly building up to the worst day ever.

 

 

**9 minutes.**

 

 

He had decided to get a coffee and a pastry from the train station vendor to cheer himself up, only to realize halfway through the line that he only had 63 cents to his name.

 

So there he stood again, feeling utterly defeated.

 

 

**4 minutes.**

 

 

Come on Harry, your reality is only as terrible as you think it is, he tried to tell himself. This is the beginning of a new year, one where everything will be different. Better. You've made some new friends who are awesome. You've gotten your body in shape, which now looks awesome. You've come to terms with the fact that you may never find the love of your life, but also know that at one point, you had it. And that's something right? More than any of your classmates could say, surely.

 

And yeah, it was something alright... but was it enough?

 

He eyed those tracks again, remembering that feeling again all too keenly. The empty sense of resignation. Of longing for something to change but truly believing it never could.

 

It was a cop-out he knew. He had to keep fighting against it at all costs and try to improve himself, try to find new goals and truly strive for them. It was the only way... but then again, what was the point?

 

What was the point, to any of this, at all?

 

 

**2 minutes.**

 

 

Harry chuckled to himself at his existentialist crisis at the same time that his insides did a nauseous flip.

 

Love. Love was the point. It always seemed to come back to that, if his memories had taught him anything. However terrible, however wrong and unfortunate, they'd been the only thing deemed worthy to travel through time. Worthy of being remembered.

 

Not the great achievements, not the money earned, not the mini-empires of social esteem built in the careless toss of a lifetime. No, it was love. Pure and simple. In the end it seemed the heart ruled supreme after all, while the brain just processed and cataloged. As for the soul...

 

Harry winced to himself. These sorts of thoughts were beyond him, like trying to contemplate the end of the universe – the kind of thoughts that only ever ended in a headache and a whole lot of confusion. He could only go off what he'd experienced, what he'd felt. And that little bit had let him know that a true connection to another being was one of the most important experiences that was to be had in a life.

 

And if he couldn't have that again in this life, he... he didn't know if it was worth living it at all.

 

 

**1 minute.**

 

 

The whoosh of air heralded its arrival. It pushed through his hair as a girl before him had to hold down her wispy summer skirt. Time seemed to slow down as he looked at the tracks again.

 

It would be easy. It would be simple.

 

But her friend's laugh brought him out of it, and he watched as she tried to help, her curls bouncing in the artificial wind.

 

And it made him think of another time, one bathed in a light summer's breeze and worn leather against his back underneath a starry sky.

 

 

_When I was very young, I used to think that the stars were just holes poked into the floor of heaven._

 

 

So he staid, feeling like a shadow behind himself as the doors opened and the flood of people exited. He was the last one on, moving mechanically just as the warning buzzer rung out.

 

He'd just have to go on, one step at a time.

 

 

"Hey... Harry?" someone said just as he got himself situated in a position least likely to make himself fall over at the endless stops and starts.

 

He looked up and found Zayn grinning at him, looking a little sweaty and disheveled, and obviously just out of a club.

 

"Hey."

 

"Ohmygod, are you on your way to school? That's so precious," he drawled while making his way over to him.

 

"Yeah, summer break's over," he mumbled as he was seized into one of his greetings again. He could smell the alcohol all but wafting off him, but he wasn't one to judge, especially with the grin that Zayn was giving him. It was the best thing he'd seen all day.

 

"Hey, hey," Zayn swayed a bit before him as the train took a turn, "Have you met Louis? Lou, come over here," he waved to someone and Harry turned his head.

 

And promptly froze.

 

He was holding onto the railings as he made his way across, showing off a tattooed bicep with an easy grin on his scruffy face, but Harry didn't notice. All he could see were his eyes. And it seemed like his entire being just funneled down into him with one quick whoosh, to be there, now.

 

"Do you two know each other?" he heard Zayn ask.

 

"No," Louis laughed out, just as Harry answered,

 

"Yes."

 

He came to stand just before him, gripping the handlebar above his head as the train shook and turned. And Harry could do nothing but stare.

 

"So, ehm, this is Louis," Zayn went on, "meet Harry."

 

"Hi Harry," the boy said and offered up a hand.

 

Harry blinked at it, before looking back into his eyes. This couldn't be real. It really couldn't. But he felt it, like a strike into his very being, total and irrefutable. His vision was starting to blur and he took a quick breath in before he passed out from oxygen deprivation. It was him. It was him. It was him. Oh god.

 

So he forwent his hand and threw his arms around him instead, drawing him in tight as he probably let out some sort of unmanly whine. He could feel the boy letting out a huff in surprise but he didn't care.

 

"Hi... Louis," he whispered into his neck.

 

The train's path jostled them, but he still didn't let him go.

 

"Ehmm... hi?" Louis' voice came out a bit strained as he tried to hold them up.

 

Harry lifted his head and moved them against the divider, the shift of the train knocking him against it with a bit more force than he had intended.

 

Louis' eyes were wide as they looked back at him. But Harry was certain, more certain than he had ever been in his life.

 

'You may not remember this,' he thought as he held him. 'But I've known you in every life I've lived. And I've spent all of this one searching for you.'

 

The lights flickered off just then, and he could feel Louis quake against him in the darkness and let out a squeaky: "What?"

 

They flicked on again as they approached the next station and scared eyes looked back at him. Shit, had he just said that out loud?

 

Harry eased off a bit, feeling utterly mortified. Oh god, he was going to think he was some sort of freak and hightail it never to be heard from again. He'd just fucked it all up, hadn't he?

 

Zayn let out a cough beside him, and Harry glanced at him, his despair probably showing in his eyes judging from the way the boy's eyebrows raised up.

 

"Wait... what? Oh my fucking fuck, no way!" he gaped back at him, and clutched a handle bar as the train came to a lurching stop.

 

Harry moved away to let people exit, and had half a mind to just duck out with them. That, or sink through the floorboard and right onto the tracks.

 

The mob cleared and the doors closed again, and Zayn was still gaping at him and Louis in turn, obviously at a loss for words.

 

"Like... like, seriously?" he stammered on as the train started up again.

 

Harry could feel his cheeks flaming up and no power in the world seemed to be able to get his eyes from lifting off the floor.

 

But... it was him. A mere few paces before him. Now. In this life. And he had to let him know. He had to.

 

So he steeled whatever part of himself that had made it this far, and looked up again trying to catch his gaze.

 

But he was looking everywhere but him, looking a bit uncomfortable and confused, but there was something else as well and that alone gave him hope.

 

 _Please please, just look at me_ , ran through his mind as Zayn gave out an "Oh fuck," beside Louis. He held his gaze as the train rocked them and could feel his eyes starting to well up.

 

This was it. This was it. Come on.

 

A moment passed. A second. A minute. An hour. Nothing would have surprised him. And yet he kept looking at his face. If this was to be it... if this was all he got... then it would have to be enough and he'd lock this moment away in his memories for forever.

 

But then, with a blink and a flutter, he raised his eyes at last and looked back.

 

"Hi Harry," he said... slowly, softly.

 

And Harry could feel his entire world crashing down, crumbling and incinerating him in one fellow swoop, only to spit him out again as someone new.

 

"Hi Louis," he said, and stepped towards him.

 

 

 

 


End file.
